Winter
by GhostRelic
Summary: Winter is an arduous and treacherous journey. Especially for Sansa Stark and Tywin Lannister. :::: Pride & Pack: Part V :::: [COMPLETE]
1. Wedding pt I

The beginnings of winter in King's Landing was like the summer snowstorms Sansa remembered from Winterfell.

The skies were miserable, the sun barely made an appearance, and the snow itself came down in thick, sticky wet flakes. The only cold that seemed to stay was an icy wet that soaked through clothing and brought with it dreadful coughs, bouts of illness, and plenty of death.

Lord and Lady Lannister were fortunate to avoid sickness, but the damp chill pursued everyone regardless of economic or familial status. Stone walls and tall towers held onto the terrible perpetual dank and made the sagging lowly wooden structures of Flea Bottom look appealingly warm.

Nights were the worst of it, plummeting the depths of cold even deeper; reminding the population that their control was not without limit; that natural forces would always govern them, their comfort, and whether they lived or died.

It was a particularly frigid night that Tywin woke to the sounds of his wife groaning, in what could only be described as pain.

There were so many coverings and furs piled on top of them that he could just see a cap of auburn poking its way out of the top edge of it all. She was further away from him than usual, which was even more unusual considering the low temperatures, and when he stretched to touch his wife, his fingers registered only the cold damp seeping through her heavy bedgown.

As quick as he could manage through the weight of the abundant coverings, he crawled to her.

She was curled up on her side, away from him, and the closer he got to her the more pronounced her groaning became. She was awake and rocking in her position, whimpering and shaking. When he placed a hand on her shoulder, she peered back at him wearing a look of sheer panic and utter fear.

"_It hurts_..." It was barely a whisper and breathed through her teeth.

Tywin raised himself to his knees and leaned over her in order to look at her more directly. Her vagueness sparked his annoyance, if there was something wrong this was hardly the time make him guess.

"_What_ hurts, Sansa?" he tried to make it sound even, but it was flung out as more of a bark.

She curled more tightly into herself and cried quietly, "My _belly_."

Now his mind was snapping to references and probabilities, and in that same moment he threw every fur and blanket off his wife. He gave a cursory glance over her, leaning back on his heels to take in more of her form; he shivered in his own right.

When he saw the blood in their bed, soaked through her bed dress, on her, _there_, Tywin Lannister was rendered to stone. His was a terror that managed to surface from the place he had buried it decades before.

It was a reaction he had to mentally and physically force himself out of, one he had to shut himself off from, in order to be able to find his legs and rush to summon the maester.

"_I want to be a mother."_ she had told him, seemingly out of nowhere, but with the conviction of a decision that had been thoroughly deliberated.

He gave her what she wanted, granted her something he _knew_ he could provide after she had suffered a seemingly endless wave of personal devastation.

He knew she was strong, another nameday gone, a woman grown; but rising above all that was the fact that _she _was ready. _She_ made the choice, and that was what he had been waiting for.

Tywin would have seen that she had done her duty and provided him heirs, regardless, but he wanted her to feel she had both power and influence in her own life; her perceived strength allowing him a greater legacy in the long run; at least, that's what he told himself.

When she missed her moonblood, her eyes held an excitement he had not seen before. It was a happiness he remembered in Joanna; and he tried, but failed, to feel it too. But when Sansa missed another cycle, he allowed himself to acknowledge the flutter in him; the same flutter he felt watching Cersei and Jaime grow in their mother's belly...

But now he was trying to piece together exactly how many moons she was with child; and as he did so, he felt that exact part of his mind shut down, infuriating him. Simple math was all he needed in that moment, and instead he was hopelessly lost in the blood and noise in front of him.

However, at once, his feet were moving and his voice was speaking; instinct wasn't completely absent.

He yanked and yelled at guards and servants alike, sending for the maester, for baths, for linens, for handmaids to attend Sansa; and it was not until Lyol brought him light breeches and a fresh tunic that Tywin looked down to see his own golden bedgown was stained in the wrong kind of crimson.

Maester Pycelle arrived within what seemed like heartbeats and was instantly ushered into the bedchamber.

The lion, again, moved his feet out of instinct and made his way to his solar; summoning for wine in the meantime.

Changed, alone, and sitting behind the desk in his solar, Tywin took stock. Sansa was just over three moons with child; and she was losing the babe, there was no question in that detail.

Pycelle requested audience after a time and stepped in at Tywin's command.

"My lord," his voice did not so much waver as it did hesitate, "the child is lost."

Pycelle waited for Lord Tywin to speak, but there was only silence between them. The Hand did not bother to look up from his cup of wine; the maester continued, "Lady Sansa fares well, she is strong and will recover."

Tywin flicked his eyes at the man and wordlessly told him his patience was waning. There was nothing this man was telling him that he did not already know.

"I will return later this morning to assess her again, my lord."

The lion blinked slow and spoke in warning, "This, like the pregnancy, will not be spoken of."

Maester Pycelle looked affronted, "Of course my lord-"

With a glare that screamed violence and a pointed nod in the direction of the door, Tywin dismissed the maester and returned his focus to the cup in his hand. It was only then that he noticed the rippling tremors on the surface of his wine.

His hands were shaking.

Setting his cup down he fisted both hands and called for Lyol.

"Where is Lady Sansa now?"

The steward took his place to the side and behind his liege, "She is being bathed and tended to, my lord."

Tywin clenched his fists tighter, to the point of pain, "Have her own chambers readied, and take her to them once she is prepared."

"Yes..." Lyol was not one to question his lord, but the order created a subconscious pause that translated to an actual one, "My lord, of course."

The stumble was not addressed, but it was noted.

Alone again, Tywin opened his hands in order to view the damage on his palms. His bloodied, shivering palms.

He closed his eyes and placed his hands flat against the desktop, and again took stock. This time it was of his own person.

His breathing was paced, his pulse was fine, his mind was not rushing, but his hands kept quaking; and there, in a tiny hollow, pushed back to the outermost part of his own recognition, he found his answer.

Fear.

Unadulterated, purely malign fear.

If he focused on the fear, he would lose himself, so he pushed it back to where it had been, hardened himself for the consequences, and moved forward as he would normally.

As he strode to his bedchamber, Sansa was being escorted to her own; he walked past her as though she was no more than a stick of furniture.

"_Tywin_..." she addressed him in a voice influenced by whatever Pycelle had given her for the pain.

She was reaching for him as her handmaids were steering her, almost against her will, toward her own chambers.

"M-My lord?" It was so full of confused anguish; she reached harder, as if he simply had not seen her.

Tywin hardened his eyes, ground his back teeth and walked on, sparing her nothing in his journey.

In his bed, _their bed_, his shaking hands dogged him further. Once more Tywin closed his eyes, this time in defeat and exhaustion, and invited in the fear that was affecting him.

_He was walking in blood, wading in it, toward a golden light. The light was Joanna, and she was drowning in the black-crimson that was now up to his waist; and when he reached her, he held her to keep her above the gore, but her head tipped back and her hair soaked up the red like ink on linen._

_The blood was to his chest, and when he held the back of Joanna's head, lifting it up and away from the black that was trying to engulf her, she had turned into Sansa. His hands were now full of copper instead of gold, and it was like she was made of it as well. The weight was pulling her under, and his muscles burned at the effort to keep her from slipping below the surface, but it was not enough. Her face was slowly being enveloped by the thick warm sea of blood that was now almost to his neck._

_He tried screaming at her to wake and save herself, but his words were eaten before they left his lungs._

_The weight was too much, his arms could hold her no longer; he felt his body sob a violent, silent spasm, as she was swallowed under wave after wave._

Tywin's eyes snapped open from his dream and the first thing he acknowledged was his racing heart, the second was the spiky peaks of rage and fear tingling their way through him. The third thing Lord Tywin acknowledged was the fact that he was weeping. His hands had stilled, his body was calming, and his mind was draining his anxiety in the only way it could.

He let it happen; to fight it would be folly, he knew that intimately.

He endured.

It was still the dead of night as he laid awake letting his terror seep from him; what caught his attention was faint at first, but as he strained to hear, it became terribly apparent.

Sansa was crying as well, and the sound of it made his heart feel like it was turning in his chest, but he simply could not go to her. He could not be strong for her when he had no strength left for himself.

She needed him and he would have shattered at her feet, useless.

He had failed them both.

It had been a full turn of the moon since that night, and Tywin continued to turn his wife away; from their bed, from him, from everything.

Her husband would barely talk to her, he refused to take meals with her, and rarely worked in their apartments - opting to stay late in the map room or in the solar close to the throne room.

In that time, Sansa found her own strength to push on and move forward, not from some miraculous inner fortitude, but from the knowledge that she _had_ to. She had no one to turn to that could relate or sympathize; not that it would have been allowed if she did.

The only time Tywin had spoken to her was to tell her that she was not to discuss the matter with anyone, without exception. The latter part of the handful of words was plainly pertaining to Tyrion.

The result was that it had left her to contemplate and delegate her own emotions.

She endured.

Not without guilt and apprehension, however.

The only thing she _should _have been able to do, she couldn't. Her husband had realized his mistake in marrying her, Sansa knew, and was now determining her worth as a wife unable to provide the heir he needed.

She had failed them both.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The day of Joffrey's wedding started early. They were to break their fast in grand fashion and proceed to the customary gift giving.

Sansa was woken more than once in an effort to coax her out of her warm bed into the chilly morning air, and it was only with minor petulance and whined out words on Sansa's part, that her handmaids were finally able to achieve their task.

In a flurry of practiced maneuvering, they had their lady bathed and dressed in the first of three gowns she would wear that day; the other two, for the wedding ceremony and the feast, had been set out and readied the previous evening.

Tywin seemed to have a sense for what she needed or wanted. In the time since her marriage, she had never had to ask for gowns or accessories. There had just always been someone who arrived to take her measurements or fabric wrapped parcels waiting for her.

She enjoyed it. She had thanked him the first time she came upon a gown waiting for her on their bed, he replied by snarling that she was a Lannister and was expected to look as such.

It was never touched upon again, but the gestures had always been there.

Until the blood came.

The gowns had already been selected moons past, coordinating with the Queen and Lady Margaery, but there had been nothing besides from her husband, as would normally be his custom.

Tywin had, for all intents and purposes, walked out of her life for more than a moon.

So when he walked into her bedchamber, where she was waiting for assistance in fastening her necklace, she was immediately uptight and suspect.

He stood rigid; his face severe, and glared at her.

Sansa could not maintain eye contact and opted to simply curtsy and greet him as propriety required.

"My lord." she kept her eyes trained to the center of his impossibly black doublet with the impossibly fine gold stitching.

His voice was distracted, but somehow managed to be annoyed too, "My lady, are you ready-"

Lord Tywin dropped his words as his attention was caught by the ornate box sitting on his wife's vanity.

"What is _that_?" he clipped.

Sansa had to look up to her husband's face and follow the path of his gaze in order to understand what he was referring to.

She spoke in that direction, her voice matter of fact, "It's a gift, my lord."

Tywin glared at his wife and openly sneered his dislike, "Look at me, girl." He waited for her head to turn and her eyes to meet his before continuing in his awful drawl, "What _kind_ of gift?"

His wife showed no fear in regards to his demeanour, "I don't know my lord, it just arrived, I have yet to open it."

"You would be better to avoid and discard _any_ gift from a stranger, like it was poison." His posture and tone had not changed.

Sansa turned slightly, attained the small card sitting on the box, read it, and looked at her husband again, "I don't know if I would call Lady Olenna a stranger, my lord."

His ever-short patience was now at an end, "She is dangerous and conniving," he had leaned in and was snide, "I will save you the _obvious_ strain of decision making, and forbid your acceptance of it."

As her husband spat his words at her, he also produced his own gift, setting it on top of the one under suspicion.

Sansa could not stop from widening her eyes, raising her brow, and scoffing. She could not put thought to his ridiculousness; she was left blinking on top of her incredulous look.

He narrowed his eyes and flexed his jaw. His wife was calling him a fool in every way except words, and he _hated _her for it. She might as well laugh at him; he hoped she would, just to show her what kind of rage it would earn her.

But she did not, she simply looked at him, and it was mere heartbeats between the time Tywin settled to reach out and physically remove her attitude and when he stopped.

His breath caught.

He realized he was looking at a reflection of himself.

Sansa was mimicking him, whether she knew it or not. The manner of her stare, the set of her face, her scoff, and her internal judgment - was all Tywin Lannister.

His chest tightened, _in repulsion?_, _in admiration?_, and from the way Sansa's own look reworked slightly to show concern, he knew the pain of seeing himself in her was tangible on him.

He did not give them permission, but he watched as his hands cupped her face and gently brushed his thumbs around her eyes and down her cheeks, pushing out the bitterness that had no business being there.

So focused was he on her face and his hands, that he did not realize she had made a reach of her own.

Sansa, without breaking the gaze they had established, lightly brushed the fingertips of one hand under his chin and down his throat - ending at the upper edge of his high collar.

The huff of breath and aborted groan that came out of her husband made her smile inside. It was something warm after weeks of bitter cold; it was comforting and she could not deny it made her feel good.

His face was serious and grim, but his eyes smoothed to something other than constant misgiving.

She swept her hand further down the front of him in a slow confident movement. When she was midway, she shifted herself entirely, his hands moving away from her face, and slid both her arms around him.

Resting her temple on his chest, she embraced him.

It was not a gesture _for _him, it was a truth she needed _from _him.

It was a certain type of assurance she needed from knowing she was not alone. It mattered little and less if the act was one sided, what she needed was a physical reiteration that their marriage included someone else other than her, an anchor of sorts; and if she could only feel that particular weight once every turn of the moon, so be it, she would hold on while she had the chance.

He was overly tense, she could feel that in him; even when he rested his palms against her back and pulled her closer; even when she felt his mouth rest in her hair and his breath leave in a low tone and slow pace.

It was like their closeness was painful for him, and Sansa considered perhaps that was the truth of it. Perhaps she was no more than a living reminder of a mistake.

A mistake held close is a mistake that can never lead to regret.

Sansa was awash in cold again.

At the same time, Tywin began disengaging. He removed his hands and pulled hers away from him, not ungently, using the same movement to push her back to arms' length.

"You will wear what I have brought for you." His tone was softer than before, but it would also brook no opposition.

He stroked his hands over and down the luxurious softness of her long sleeves, until his fingers brushed over hers.

His touch was so welcomed and so missed, that it was like she was watching it happen from outside herself. The tingling where his palms had passed was distracting; so much so, she did not notice his fingers pinch the card she still held, and remove it from her grasp.

It had seduced her, a feeling she was jerked out of abruptly, as Tywin stood straight, turned away from her, and retrieved the gift he found so offensive.

Taking the parcel with him, he left her without another word.

Sansa blinked to collect herself, put herself back together; she could keep going, better, stronger, with the taste of safety and association she needed.

Opening the box Tywin left her, she allowed the tiniest of smiles; in it were a set of combs. Ornate and fine, made of white gold and accented in Lannister gold, with waves of the smallest rubies and diamonds she had ever seen, dancing along the top.

_As was his custom_.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

To describe such a way to break one's fast as _opulent_ would be an understatement.

Tables were piled with fresh fruit long since withered under the cold and sleet of King's Landing, dishes of hot and cold meats, vegetables, and sweet and tart desserts, it all seemed never ending.

Looking over her meal, Sansa remembered tales of even the highest Stark lords pairing down to accommodate the famine of winter, and could not help but see the gluttony in front of her, the same that was ignored by everyone around her, as something foreboding.

But she was not in the company of a northern lord, she was with a king and his Southron constituency; whose only notion of hunger was what they woke up with, that was quashed the moment they were mobile.

Sansa chided herself then, _she _didn't know what it meant to be hungry either.

They were heavy thoughts, but they did not weigh her down. In this instance, they reinforced her notion that the North would always survive. That when someone willingly allowed themselves to suffer for the betterment of others, in any capacity, strength was innately theirs.

She thought of Spring and smiled softly.

Tywin caught her eye as he waved to men deep in the wings of the ballroom and watched as two extravagantly dressed guards carried in a covered display. Once they set it down, they looked to Tywin. His nod was their cue to lift a heavy drape of red velvet and uncover a suit of armour that seemed to catch and hold every point of light in the room.

The armour was like nothing Sansa had ever seen before, and by the mutters of men and gasps of women, it was something unseen in general.

The mail was heated steel, plated in gold, and ringed so small and close that it looked woven.

Every part of the outer armour that required flex and movement was scaled. But unlike the armour of the Kings Guard, these were smaller and looked like elongated coins. They were made of hardened steel and, like the mail, plated in gold.

Individual components of plate, the gorget, the cuirass, the pauldrons, and the greaves, were intricately embossed; the raised metal plated in gold while the rest was enameled in a deep, rich crimson. The ornate helm was embossed and enameled as well.

In the center of the breastplate was the halved sigil of the King, the lion and the stag, encrusted in more jewels than what was being worn in attendance.

If anything was made for a king, it was the armour unveiled to him.

Joffrey got to his feet, beaming between his mother and his grandfather; the gift was one to his liking, and Sansa could understand why.

But as the King approached the display to gloat in his finery, his features took a downturn and his eyes narrowed. Edging his face even closer, Joffrey seemed to be scrutinizing the jeweled ornaments in the breast plate.

Without a word, he turned back to the table, picked up the large knife he was using to dine, and swung around again facing the armour; with the same proximity and scrutiny used prior, he started digging and chipping at the craftsmanship.

Seemingly thwarted, the King spun to his grandfather, his face distorted in objection.

"What is _this_?" he asked incredulously.

Joffrey was picking the point of his knife at a tiny accent of grey metal between the black gems that made up the stag. Sansa could only conclude that the armourist used white gold to hold them, instead of its yellow counterpart - as was used in the lion.

Tywin addressed the petulant King with tact and poise, "That is _gold_, Your Gra-"

"This is _not _gold," Joffrey now spoke with an affrontedness one would normally reserve for the greatest of insults, "This is _bastard gold_! Why would you think to gift your King with a lesser gold, made for lesser people?" His eyes struck directly at Sansa.

Sansa could hear the faint strain of her husband's doublet, the material and seams protesting the tightening of him tensing within it. His voice, however, carried nothing of the kind.

"It's not the plate that makes a warrior, it's the man who wears it, _Your Grace_." The growl Tywin produced was equal parts annoyance and warning, and it silenced the room; it also caused the King to visibly startle.

"Taking pride in what you've been gifted, to your liking or not, will garner you respect, _Your Grace_. Carelessly mar those things, and it will only earn you scorn."

Sansa shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

Joffrey heeded his grandfather's ire, but his ornery tirade was only redirected.

"You did this, didn't you?" the King looked to Sansa again, curled his lip in disgust, and now pointed his knife at her.

Sansa quickly weighed her options and made her decision by determining the most likely outcomes.

She stood.

"Yes, Your Grace, I beg you forgive my ignorance, the addition was made at my request." Sansa lowered her eyes and bowed her head in submission to her King, "I cared only for aesthetics and not the implications."

Joffrey needed a target, and by foolishly looking for one in Tywin he was left wanting. Sansa's gamble was to give him what he sought, an avenue for his fury, in an effort to sate him; and, in turn, save those in attendance from having his cruelty inflicted on them.

The King scoffed at his grandmother, then forgot about her, _and_ the armour; his distraction was further helped by Lady Margaery gathering his attention with flattering words, an approving smile, and a request to continue the procession of gifts.

Unfortunately, Sansa's own efforts were for not; Joffrey would find it in himself to be cruel to those he despised, regardless of words or wealth laid before him; and she could only watch helplessly as Tyrion became his next focus.

It pained her that Tywin watched the scene unfold without care or interest. His face was completely impassive, but she could see in his eyes an unparalleled hate for his son.

In those awful moments she hated _herself_; hated herself for being thankful their child was lost, lest it had been looked upon with the same eyes.

Sansa lowered her gaze from the display of ignorance and animosity in front of her, but caught movement in her peripheral.

Lord Tywin wrapped his hand around hers and leaned into her.

She smiled, even when the pressure on her hand verged on pain, and tilted her head to allow him to speak closely to her ear.

Her face was turned toward the room, her smile remained flawless, as was expected from a wife listening to the intimate words of her husband.

Tywin squeezed tighter and growled low, agitated, "I _do not_ need rescuing, _my lady_."

When he brought his solemn face around to hers, his wife was still smiling, almost thoughtfully. She jutted her chin at him as a silent indication that she wanted to speak to him in the same manner.

He narrowed his eyes at her and flexed his jaw in annoyance, but acquiesced nonetheless.

It was Tywin who was facing the room as Sansa settled her lips next to the shell of his ear and spoke in a tone that was nothing but modest, "The only rescue I performed, my lord, was that of a beautiful gift from unnecessary destruction."

At that, the lion felt her thumb work in circles over his. A motion and act that was usually _his_ toward _her_; but the effect was the same. Tywin felt himself relax a fraction - his muscles lost some of their tension, his breathing deepened, and his grip on her reverted to something more pleasant.

When they turned their attention back to the room, their conversation over, Tywin did not release Sansa but tugged gently; he held her hand, resting them both on his thigh for the duration.

* * *

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_** A huge thank you to my beta, content developer, researcher, sounding-board, and internet life-partner: dealbreaker19 **_


	2. Wedding pt II

Sansa stood with her husband, smiling at, speaking to, and mingling with lords and ladies from across Westeros, before being ushered into the feast.

They had wordlessly made their way to their chambers after the ceremony. Tywin, it seemed, had chosen to ignore her - wearing a look of disinterest. He would dip his head to hear her when she wished to speak, but had not bothered to respond or initiate conversation himself; not since they broke their fast.

She stopped trying; they dressed in silence and remained that way when he offered his arm and they walked to the feast. Instead, Sansa chose to observe and present herself as the role of Hand's wife required.

The only indication Tywin gave that she had even the slightest bit of his attention was when she was speaking with Prince Oberyn, laughing at his predictable, practiced charm and truly inappropriate banter.

She felt her husband's hand curl around her waist, even though the rest of him remained turned away, speaking with a brightly dressed Braavosi.

"Lions are protective, it seems," the charming prince drawled to her as he leaned in close.

Sansa employed her own smile and charm, "And wolves mate for life, my lord."

The Red Viper straightened, took a step back, smiled even wider, and produced a laugh that was impossible not to reciprocate.

She was blushing fiercely and it only worked to her advantage, as the coy prince ended his game.

However, he lifted her hand and kissed it in a way that made her blush even harder, and spoke with his lips still on her skin, "_My lady_."

He nodded a bow and made his way back to a beautiful woman who was smiling at Sansa in the same manner Prince Oberyn did.

Sansa blinked through her perplexity, straight to realization; Tyrion's company meant acquiring an education every time his bawdy humour confused her.

Behaviour she once addressed in shame and embarrassment was now looked at with an air of entertainment and inquiry; but she had no time to think beyond realization. She felt Tywin pull her close, and when she smiled up at her husband she immediately ate her joy; he was looking at her as though his intent was to kill, and she could not determine _who_.

Once again Lady Lannister wore her approachable smile and looked impeccable next to her equally impeccable husband.

They were a force, even without words, _that_ truth was undeniable.

Upon studying the room, she noticed a definite lack of representation from the North; but Stannis Baratheon was making stability impossible for Lord Bolton and his banners; and even though the North was once again in the better graces of regency, Sansa was not at all upset they were too busy being besieged by snow and King Stannis to allow their attendance.

_Spring.._.

With an extravagant flourish, those waiting were ushered into the ballroom to begin the feast.

Much like her own wedding, this one consisted of more courses than Sansa had interest or appetite for and a never-ending procession of people garnering for Lord Tywin's favour, but _unlike_ their own wedding, more than enough were seeking her's as well.

Another purposeful change, in Sansa's opinion, was that Tyrion was seated well away from her. Her only reprieve was when he would casually stroll by her and they would speak, only briefly, so not to gain the attention of his father. However, she began to notice, his periodic stops were a physical depiction of his elevating drunkenness.

It was when she watched her _son_ in her peripheral, internally thanking him for being about to dismiss a thoroughly drunken Tyroshi from her presence, that she frowned at his sudden seriousness and apparent indifference toward her.

Mere moments later, the Tyroshi abruptly left as well.

She knew then that the man seated beside her had made his presence known; she made no effort to turn in his direction.

When she felt warmth at her ear and neck, her body closed her eyes without her say-so, but it was needed. Tywins voice rattled through her, and it was so unexpected that she let out a deep lungful of air and felt her flesh prickle.

"Come, my lady."

When Sansa finally blinked her eyes open, her husband was standing in front her, offering his hand.

She gathered herself quickly and was able to reply in a voice that completely contrasted her roiling insides, "Of course, my lord."

Tywin took her hand, helping her to her feet, then felt it slide to its place over his forearm.

He did not know why he requested her company; it was only as they were walking from the dais that he realized he had to make a decision as to where they were going and what they would do once there. He was only mildly imbibing, but perhaps the small amount of wine was allowing another part of him to dictate his actions.

No matter.

He chose a place at the far end of the room, near the servants' entrance.

Tucked behind heavy curtains was a small set of doors and a small balcony just without. It was a door used to exchange air and help maintain temperature within the ballroom when the amount of people talking influenced the amount of hot air being produced; and, as Tywin flicked his serious glare around, he knew that door would certainly be open.

Her husband held the long heavy curtain back as an invitation for her to proceed.

She stepped out onto a balcony that would fit no more than six people and held a high view of lower rooftops of the castle. What she noticed, foremost, was the quiet. Once the curtain fell back into place, the volume of the hum from the festivities inside was reduced to nothing.

What was most pleasant to Sansa, though, and what prompted her to look out and lean on the railing, was the cold air. It was well into the evening, and it cooled her instantly. She smiled to see random flakes of snow swirling in the air and glowing in radiance of the large windows above her. The cold was dry this night and it made the snow lighter, letting the wind carry it greater distances.

The atmosphere also amplified her error at leaving her cloak within.

Seemingly on cue, she was wrapped on either side by the soft fur interior of her husband's cloak and felt the heat of him at her back.

Tucking the rich fabric and fur around her, she stood as close as she could to Tywin without touching him.

He had reverted to being silent again, and it only piqued her curiosity as to why he called her to join him.

Swallowing hard, Sansa tried to deliberate her surfacing dread. Using only her eyes, she peered over the edge of the railing - the fall was too short and wouldn't necessarily kill her. She then concentrated on any movement behind her that would indicate a strike, or any noise that might signify a blade.

There was nothing.

The pleasantness she felt in the weather was fading quickly.

She made up her mind and turned to face him; if she was going to suffer violence or death or hatred of some kind she was going to face it, as she had always been forced to in the past.

Looking up, she could see him clearly in the illumination from the castle around them, he was peering out over her head, his eyes held a softness, but she couldn't be sure it was not simply a trick of the light.

When he looked down at her, his face was pitched in shadows, and she could not see his eyes anymore. What she could see was the flex and movement of his jaw; meaning he was about to speak or that he was livid.

Her breath quickened when she felt his fingers brush and drape around her throat; she closed her eyes and prepared herself for what might be her final moments. His fingers tightened, but only a fraction, and she felt warm breath on her skin again; her own hitched in her throat.

What could have been a word or a growl from her husband was cut off by screams from the other side of the curtain.

She was immediately cold when Tywin spun away from her.

The sound of him unsheathing his sword was made louder by the quiet of the balcony and caused her to flatten against the railing.

He swung the curtains aside and the noise of panic engulfed her. She could see him glance around methodically, then speak to the guards that followed them. It was only a matter of heartbeats before he rounded back outside to her, and as he did so the curtain fell closed once more - taking the light with it.

She felt him more than anything, his face no more than darkness. His hand cupped her jaw and pulled her cheek into his side whiskers; his mouth was next to her ear and his voice was calm, but hurried.

"The guards will take you back. Listen," he pulled her even tighter, "Talk to no one. Stop for no one. Keep moving until you are inside the apartments. Bar the door and tell Lyol the King is dead."

He held her impossibly tight then, his voice almost urgent, "Do you _understand_?"

She was stunned and struggled with the right words.

Tywin could not wait, he shook the hand that was on her, yelling, "_Sansa_! Do you _understand_?!"

"Yes, Tywin, yes... I understand..." her small words tumbled out on their own.

He spun around again, his sword out in front, and his free hand extended back, gripping and ripping a hold on the tight fabric at the middle of her gown; he pulled her along and kept her right behind him until they were past the curtain and in the chaos of the ballroom.

The first thing Sansa heard was Cersei screaming for her father, the next was the clank and rush of armour surrounding her. There were eight men wearing Lannister red, swords drawn, facing out on every side of her.

She looked at Tywin and drew strength from the man who stood amongst it all, like a boulder in a raging river.

Lady Lannister nodded to her husband.

"_Go_." he barked at the lead sentry and watched her disappear through the doors; disrupting the throngs of people flowing out with her.

He returned to the dais, and took control.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Sansa found herself truly frightened when she was awoken unpleasantly.

She had tried to stay awake and wait for her husband; but as the minutes drifted to hours, she fell asleep in the sitting room and did not protest when she was gently herded to bed by her handmaid.

It was the deadliest hour of night, and not only had the fire died in the small hearth in her separate bedchamber, but the crash of noise from the sitting room seemed louder in the smaller room; she wriggled further under the blankets and furs and kept her wide eyes on the door.

Nothing of a physical nature made its way inside, but the sporadic destruction from the other room was deafening.

When the crashing subsided, Sansa could hear angry muffled words and periodic cursing.

It was not curiosity that motivated her to leave the warmth of her bed, don her robe and slippers, and venture to the room that held her husband, it was duty.

Regardless of facts as to why, Lord Tywin was raining terror on himself and it was her responsibility to be there, to ease his suffering, or even withstand it for him; and Lady Sansa was more than confident she could do all of those things.

Sansa padded softly through the room, walking around and over pages, books, splinters of wood and broken glass, until she was standing at one end of the sofa, looking at the profile of her husband at the other.

He was seated on the floor, his back against the large piece of furniture, his legs stretched out in front of him, surrounded by wreckage, staring into the fire. There was no immediate smell of wine and she knew his actions had been unleashed solely out of fury.

She also knew that her husband was not a grandfather grieving the loss of his grandson, nor was he a subject grieving the loss of their king.

He was the engineer of outcomes, and what happened that night was _not _of his doing; her husband had been crossed and slighted, earning his conscience yet one more grudge and angle of suspicion, earning his endgame yet one more hurdle and redirection.

She could only assume, _hope_, that her personal deficiencies were now less of a priority, and perhaps he would not hate her to such a degree.

He could see his wife in his peripheral, he could see her make a tentative step toward him, and his ire spoke for him.

"Don't you _dare_ touch me!" He pointed his finger at her with a force that matched his bellow.

Sansa's body startled, but the rest of her remained calm. She did not move any further than where she had stepped, and instead of turning to leave, she found herself slowly, methodically, clearing debris from the sofa. Once a spot was open, she sat and tucked her feet up against her for warmth.

She waited. She spoke not one word.

In the flickering firelight, she watched Tywin shift his vision, recalculating and rechanneling information and scenarios. He was wheels and gears working in flesh and, despite the circumstances, it was fascinating to watch.

She had touched on it before as she sat waiting initially, that she felt more for Tywin's loss of control than she did for the loss of Joffrey's life. It was callous, and so outside the comfort of who she knew she was, but she simply could not will herself to care.

Sansa felt a certain kind of freedom. As though a heavy cloak had been lifted, and while the heft of it being gone was a relief, it did nothing else; it was simply a burden no longer there.

Her contemplation was interrupted by light circles being rubbed on the top of her foot.

Looking toward the connection, she could see Tywin had casually draped his arm over the length of the sofa and his hand had come to rest on her slippered foot. He was not looking at her, the fire still held his attention, but his fingers were curled around her ankle, and his thumb was working in a steady rhythm.

Another cog in the mechanism that is Tywin Lannister.

When his thumb stopped moving, Sansa took the chance and slipped her own fingers over his; he was still looking away, but deftly twined his own in and around them.

Ever so slowly, Sansa slid her feet off the sofa; her hand still in his, she stood and took the few steps needed to be next to him.

His vision stayed on the wisping oranges, yellows, and reds in the hearth; but when he felt his wife's thigh sway into is upper flank and chest, followed by the backs of her delicate fingers brushing from his temple to his jaw, he had no other option than to close his eyes and let her.

She gently untangled their fingers and was careful to drape his arm on the sofa again.

He could smell her; sweet and citrus and earthy. His eyes were closed, his body was at ease, and it was the calm of her scent that kept them that way.

Even when he felt her kneel astride his thighs, even when he felt her fingers and palms manipulate his neck and jaw to tilt his head back, even when her lips came to rest over his; not kissing him, just resting there.

Her breath was a warm blanket and her body was the bed he wanted to sleep in for a thousand years.

Her fingertips were like butterflies, smoothing the lines and creases in his brow; pushing out the trouble and replacing it with her serenity. He could see, in his mind, the events of the night getting further away, and instead of standing in blackness he saw the edges going white.

Every touch and caress she applied to him was preceded with a pause; there was no hesitation in her hands, more so she was silently asking approval to continue.

There was no protest in him, not even the tension she had felt earlier that day. He was in a pliable state and she wanted nothing more than to mould him into what she needed in that moment, _what they both needed_.

Moving her lips away and leaning back slightly, Sansa lightly swept her fingertips over his brow, down his cheeks, around the back of his neck and forward to the front.

His eyes remained closed, but he let out a deep breath and angled his head back further - exposing more of his throat to her.

She knew that part of him intimately. It was the part of him she would focus on when they were initially wed, when she could not hold his gaze. It was the part of him she grew to be eye level with. It was the part of him that she would watch, stretched out above her, rocking with her in a bodily rhythm when they would lay together.

She found it beautiful and familiar.

He felt the fastenings of his collar being worked open, then there was a press of warm softness, and a light suction as the warmth pulled away. The white that _was _at the edges of Tywins mind now formed a solid wall of heat and arousal.

Every time Sansa placed her lips on the stubble-roughened skin in front of her, a steady tremor would vibrate through them. There was no noise, just the feeling, and she could not stop the smile her mouth spread on him.

Tywin was purring; there was nothing else she could compare it to, and no other way she could define it.

It made her happy.

It was a bright point in weeks of darkness. She leaned into him even more and tucked her face against his day's growth of beard, absorbed his inner music, and embraced him for a second time. And this time, when his hands found her back and held her close, she could feel his fingers digging in - trying for greater purchase.

They stayed still and close for long minutes; neither moving nor speaking.

After a time, his wife stirred in his arms and spoke in a voice that sounded like it came from within his own mind.

"_Tywin_..."

When he brought his head forward again and opened his eyes to focus, he thought perhaps he had fallen asleep and was dreaming. She was made of the glow from the fire, it surrounded her and she lived within it. He had to touch his fingers to her neck and face just to prove his assumption false.

Sansa thought he looked as though he was in one of his walking-dreams, but his eyes were clear and focused; the flecks of gold inlayed in the green were dancing with the flames behind her, and she smiled at the fierce grace in front of her.

She swayed back, out of his touch, off his lap, and stood; still smiling down at her husband, wordlessly asking him to follow her.

He did. Slowly. But for no other reason than his age was charging a revolt against the vertical climb.

Once at full height, Tywin looked to Sansa; her kind smile was still there, and her arm was extended, offering him her hand.

He bit back his perpetual suspicion, gave his hand over, watched her head turn, and felt her body pull him to their bedchamber.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

She undressed him slowly, one article of clothing at a time, his only help was when she would lift his arms or tug an indication to raise his foot - like one would do to shoe a horse. By the time he was naked in front of her, he was also incredibly hard.

He stood in wait, watching her calculate and decide every movement she made.

_So beautiful_.

When she backed away a few paces, Tywin assumed it was to further consider her actions toward him; but when she started removing her own clothes, his cock jumped for every garment that fell, until she was equally bare.

He was mesmerized by her breasts rising and falling, as high and deep as her breathing dictated. Tywin remained mesmerized when they approached him, and especially when they pushed into his body.

His wife embraced him yet again, and this time, without a barrier between their skin, the warmth felt earlier was now fully ignited.

"Turn around, Sansa," his voice was hushed and foggy.

She looked at him through heavy lids and turned her back to him.

He pulled her back and wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in the thick auburn in front of him; growling in it when her arse churned back on the hard cock pressed against it.

Tywin walked them to the side of the bed and she instinctively laid her top half on the plush coverings, her feet on the floor between his. He bent himself over her, not on her, covering her body with his.

He just wanted to feel her; feel himself against her.

He moved her hair aside and savoured the skin of her neck; on his tongue, it was the same as his other senses - she calmed him.

Tywin moved his head and rested his forehead between the blades of her shoulders, let his hips roll lazily, and let his fingers wander.

As with any time his touch came in contact with the raised proof of cruelty on her back, his jaw clenched.

Her scars were a testament of someone enduring an effort to kill them.

Whipping for the sake of correction was always found on flanks, and thighs, and the backside. His wife carried marks down her spine and some at the base of her rib cage; these are only inflicted for the purpose of damage and death, out of hate and malice. He could not imagine the pain she had suffered because of it.

_Sansa came back ever resilient_.

It would be nice to wish that Sansa had no marks, no scars, and was allowed to live as the happy child that left her home; but Tywin knew if that were the case, the woman cooing and moaning softly under him would be a completely different entity - and he could not imagine _that _either.

Standing up, Tywin took in the sight of his wife bent and ready for him; his mind was starting to blur.

Filthy and erotic were the wet lines of desire the tip of his cock drew over the backs of her thighs and up over her arse. He was leaking in anticipation and his need was now in command.

He gently led his wife to straighten upright again, then turned her toward him. He needed to taste her mouth, and by the urgent reply to is kiss, it was a need of his wife as well.

She kissed him so hard and so deep, Tywin felt as though she was beckoning his life right from its source - and found, in that moment, he would surely give it.

When she pulled away, he cupped her face to prevent her from straying far. The corner of his lips twitched at the sight of her mouth, rubbed red from the coarseness of his skin.

It became her.

Tywin let his hands drift down her neck, over her collar, to her breasts; where he kneaded and teased her nipples to hardened points, and reveled in her body's buck at their sensitivity. It was as he was enjoying her breasts, holding and cupping their weight that his mind acted on its own and thought of the _other_.

Sansa watched his face as his hands moved from her breasts, where one set on her hip and the other came to rest on her belly. His eyes were sad, but only for a heartbeat, then he looked at her directly. She couldn't confidently place his emotion, but she knew well it was made of neither hate nor anger.

She put her own hand over his; it was petting little circles where a babe would grow. She pulled away from him, tugging his hand as she went, until they were both comfortably situated on their bed.

He looked down at the loveliness beneath him and entered her slowly, savouring the heat and slick tightness he had been away from for what felt like a lifetime.

_For far too long_.

At the same time he filled her, he felt her fingernails bite into his shoulders and heard what sounded like a pained hitch in her breathing.

Tywin immediately brought his face around to hers and saw the tears making their way down her temples and into her hair. He pulled out and kept looking at her; she would not hold his gaze, just kept blinking out fresh tears.

"I'm sorry," she whispered hoarsely.

Tywin frowned at his wife, and when he spoke, it was with a tone of impatience, "Are you in pain?"

Sansa shook her head, holding back the sobs that were struggling for release, and again choked out, "_I'm sorry_."

Tywin pushed himself up on his knees, her thighs spreading wide and slack as he went, his arms encircled her head, his hands rested in her hair at her crown - he was caging her body with his.

"_Why_ are you sorry, Sansa?" he said it as carefully as he could.

She blinked her sad, worried eyes at him then and could not hold back the sob that preceded her words, "Because, I _killed him_."

He looked at her and felt a stab of absolute dread; his mind flashed with images of claw marks on Joffrey's throat, and his ears rang with Cersei's accusations. Tywin was trying very hard not to give in to the anger that was simmering just below the surface.

His face was stony, his eyes were livid, and his hands were slowly fisting in her hair, "_Who_ did you _kill_?"

He tried to recount their evening; trying to single out a time when she would have the opportunity to become a Gods-damned _assassin_. He also started considering the best course of action for her; he _could not _allow this kind of scandal, he simply _could not. _

His attention then focused on her long pale throat, and how he could see her life pulse in it, and how he had sought comfort there, and how he had reveled in the taste of that beautiful, delicate expanse...

Tywin did not realize, but he had started breathing faster and his heart was racing to the point of discomfort; a sudden cold wave of resolve washed down him, taking with it whatever intentions he was considering.

He loosened his grip and started stroking his thumbs in her hair; he rasped low, "_Who_?"

Sansa looked her husband squarely in the eyes; the ones that were usually calm, the ones that now flickered in anger, and she sobbed unbidden, "The _baby_."

Tywin forcefully let out the breath he did not know he was holding and felt his chest ache. He dropped his forehead to rest between her breasts and tried to gather himself, reassemble his composure.

She was crying softly, "I know you're angry... with me..."

Tywin snapped his head up and stared at his wife with an intensity she thought _looked _like anger.

"_No_," he croaked out, "not _angry_... not _the babe_...almost _lost_..." The last parts were a mumbled whisper as his mind cycled through the images of her pale face bathed in a cold sweat, her body bleeding next to him.

_Wave after wave of blood_.

It was all he would give her; her husband would divulge no more than those few words, leaving Sansa to piece his meaning together herself.

She did though; looking up at him, his expression now recognized as concern and worry, the flex in his jaw holding back something other than annoyance, his eyes staring straight at her but lost all the same.

Blinking her tears away and sniffling in tiny hitches, Sansa moved one hand up and gently placed her fingertips on his lips.

She, herself, was not even sure of the gesture's meaning, perhaps it was to believe that he wasn't angry with her for failing him, perhaps it was to ensure she interpreted him correctly and needed to do so by touching where the words had come from.

Tywin closed his eyes, inhaled slow and deep through his nose, and leaned his mouth into her fingers.

It was neither a confirmation nor declaration, but it was real.

Sansa brought her other hand around to the back of his neck and tugged him down to her. He flattened himself over her again, and when he felt her fingers move from his lips to his neck as well, he burrowed his face in the sweet curve of porcelain that defined where her shoulder met her neck.

The weight of him on her was the kind of crush that was welcomed. It was commanding and felt safe. The warmth it generated was secondary to the claim it had on her.

She felt one of his hands move from the top of her head, trace its way down her body, and wriggle to a spot beneath her, just above her arse, on her lower back.

When his wife danced patterns with her fingertips down and over his neck, Tywin let go of his tightly coiled inner strain and responded by grinding himself into her. It was an effort to relieve her tension as well; one that was determined successful by the way Sansa slowly rocked her hips.

The white-hot pool of arousal and desire once again stirred between them.

They bedded slowly; each chasing the others monster away.

Every touch she laid on him was replied with his lips being placed on her. Every sigh was answered with a moan, and every movement helped to build a crescendo.

They were as close as they could be to one another, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist and back, his hands still holding her crown and her lower back; neither made the effort, nor wanted, to create distance.

These moments were hard-fought treasures.

For each of them, these were different instances; beauty amongst horror, peace amongst chaos. But for the individuality both Lord and Lady Lannister took from their intimacy, it was the fact that it was shared that made it extraordinary.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Tywin was resting, his eyes drifting closed, one hand propped behind his head, the other settled in the softness of skin on Sansa's hip and backside. The corner of his mouth twitched every time his fingers tickled her with the patterns they were drawing.

She was sprawled to the middle of his chest, with a riot of auburn engulfing his torso almost entirely. It was the best way to be burned alive, he thought, it was a warmth that also made him drowsy.

"Do you think she cursed me?" The despair had long since left her, her subtle hardness was back in place and dictating her emotions.

It wasn't a vague question, sadly, Tywin knew what she was referring to immediately; whether or not her mother's wishes had become truth.

"No." It was not what he wanted to talk about, but it _had _to be addressed - as was evident by her gross misinterpretation of his actions. "The healthiest of women bleed out babes, only to carry successfully." His voice was sober, but distant.

"Did Lady Joanna?" Sansa was fiddling her own patterns into the hair on his stomach.

She felt the slight hiccup in her husband, and she knew she had made him wince.

"Yes," he didn't sound distressed in the slightest, "both before and after she bore twins."

Sansa was just about to ask another question or make another statement when he cut her off after the first syllable.

"_Enough_. Sleep." he gripped her hip and backside tighter then took a deep breath and tried not to sound as exhausted as he truly was, "_Please_."

Sansa nodded into his chest before pushing herself somewhat upright; reaching long, she pulled various coverings toward them. Tywin took over when they were within his own reach and took care to cover her when she rested back to the position she was in, on top of him.

It would do; she would keep him warm, he would not turn her away again.

He took another deep breath; it was all the death in conjunction with his family he had a mind for that night. The following days and moons would surely prove their own challenges in that regard.

The first of which would be informing his wife of Tyrion's arrest.

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_** A huge thank you to my beta, content developer, researcher, sounding-board, and internet life-partner: dealbreaker19 **_


	3. Wind

Every accusation thrown every witness so obviously bought and paid for were painful to experience.

Sansa felt she was living the frustration Tyrion refused to show and absorbing the hate his father was displaying openly. It was affecting her physically, draining her completely, and sometimes even making her physically ill.

She had taken to bundling against the cold winds and walking the battlements, to clear her mind, to be away from the excruciating drama… and to plan.

Tywin wanted Tyrion to take the black, in order to save the family name from the embarrassment of an execution.

_Ridiculous_.

But, it could work to her advantage. If he were to make it to the North, she might have a better chance to use her name, _her old name_, she amended, to garner his freedom.

Jon was another angle. They were never close, and he would probably have little to no use for her begging for favour - but as Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, he would find more need and use of gold than of one man; _one half of a man_, she amended.

She would have no hope of freeing Tyrion from King's Landing as she did her mother. Lord Tywin had been keeping her close, requiring her presence for each moment of trial, taking every meal with her, working almost exclusively within arms' length of her, and keeping her by his side regardless of the messengers or meetings that had become _his_ urgency since the death of the boy-King and the crowning of the child-King.

In truth, so much time together had earned him her worry. His work ethic reminded her of a warhorse; born and bred to outlast, outmaneuver, and outmatch all other horses. But even the most remarkable of horses will die mid-stride if not allowed to rest.

She had taken to feigning intimacy in order to get him to bed; then, once there, doing no more than kissing and touching him; she would rub her fingers and hands against his tense muscles until he succumbed to sleep.

There had only been a few times she had woken up to him pleasuring her and grumbling about knowing her game. In those times, she smiled to herself at the thought, she feigned nothing.

Sansa breathed deep the cold, cold air, until her chest hurt and her teeth ached. It was comfort. It was home.

She heard the rattle and clank of armour; frozen at joints and points of movement, it made the metal yawn and protest more than usual.

Scarcely turning her head toward the sound, she first saw a white cloak; her body tingled as the heat she was conserving drained. It was a reaction she could not will herself out of; even when she recognized the golden hair and the equally golden hand. But she hid it well, returning her focus to the view, as Ser Jaime did not acknowledge her distress.

He came to a stop near her side and spoke with a voice like his father's; but wore a forced smile that confirmed to Sansa every reason why her husband rarely, if ever, trusted them.

"My lady." even a simple greeting from him sounded like a brittle attempt at sincerity.

Sansa did not know Ser Jaime prior to his return, prior to his injury, beyond his name and cursory introductions when she was betrothed to Joffrey.

They spoke only briefly throughout the trial, never more than a few words or sentences, normally when Tywin had instructed him to be an escort to Sansa. What they _did _know of each other, the primary element that allowed them to talk was that they were united in their opinion of Tyrion's innocence.

She was confident in her assumption it was for _that _reason he sought her out.

"Ser Jaime," she was still looking out over the city, but her address was polite.

He stepped closer, prompting Sansa to take a side-step further away, providing a distance adhering to what she felt was decent.

They may have been about to speak on a matter close to her heart; however, Ser Jaime did not have her trust; not outside conversations pertaining his brother. Not that she trusted _anyone _outside of a few people who could be counted with less than the fingers on one hand...

Sansa glanced at the golden hand hanging heavy and useless at the knight's side and suffered absurd guilt, as though her thoughts were spoken out loud. She shook her head at the foolishness in her.

Ser Jaime sighed loudly at her display and spoke over her muddled attention, "This is a convenient ploy, my lady," their unknown time constraints meant he would be getting straight to the point.

He turned serious suddenly, and it gave Sansa an anxious feeling to see that in him.

"Do you really think my father will _allow _Tyrion to take the black, even if that is what he chooses?"

Her brow pinched at Ser Jaime's puzzle of words, then her jaw clenched as she looked away to fully absorb his allusion; reprimanding herself for not anticipating that angle herself.

_Bloody fool_.

Any plans she secured would be for naught if Tyrion did not make it to the North in the first place.

She spoke as her thoughts lingered on the impossible, "Do you really think..."

Sansa did not have to finish for Jaime to know she did not want to believe his father would rid himself of his youngest son through a mishap on the journey North.

_If not the father, then the sister._

Jaime nodded his affirmation to her and watched as it made her swallow hard; her eyes were sad, he could see it plainly, and found he did not like it.

But they had no time for sentimentality.

"You must needs talk to my father, Lady Sansa," he could have been pleading if he did not revert back to looking arrogantly smug.

She was brought out of her thoughts and immediately narrowed her eyes at Ser Jaime; this was what she was waiting for: the favour, the pledge, the want, no different than those who begged for it at court; an avenue to Lord Tywin through his lady wife.

"You can't think Lord Tywin will care for my opinion in _this _matter," her voice was as icy as the weather they were standing in. She did not owe this man anything; their only connection was their mutual care for Tyrion.

The Kingslayer abandoned whatever humour he was clinging to, his face shifted to solemn remembrance, and he spoke softly, like a young boy.

"I don't remember much about my mother, tiny details here and there," he shifted his weight from foot to foot, reaffirming his boyish demeanour, "The occasional scene from my childhood."

Ser Jaime, wore a smile that was not mocking, it was more thoughtful, and Sansa conceded that it was this kind of seriousness that made the golden knight a character straight out of the songs.

As though her thoughts were brightly coloured illustrations, Ser Jaime widened the smile she liked and continued, "What I _do _recall, quite vividly," his smile faltered, but his thoughtful look deepened, "is the way my father looked at her."

It was almost a whisper.

It almost broke her heart.

Sansa waited for him to continue.

He looked at her with her husband's eyes, with facial features that could have been Tywin's own decades ago, with a smile she had to imagine lived in the Great Lion somewhere.

"He looks at _you _the same way." Jaime's eyes flashed a look of melancholy, then, just as fast, a look of something else; admiration perhaps, maybe hatred.

Jaime Lannister, like everyone else Sansa had met in the South, since she was forced to look at people with better eyes than she had in the North, guarded his truth behind a mask; although his in Sansa's opinion was one of the flimsier she had seen. However, as she considered the man further, it seemed perhaps after his ordeal he was becoming a different version of himself, and like herself when she was first married, this was simply one stage of the transition.

She smiled kindly at him.

There were no more words between the knight and the lady, the sound of approaching hardened leather soles, made harder by the freezing temperature, caught their attention.

She knew the point Jaime was making, she understood the comparison. She also knew he was right; she had the best and most advantageous opportunity to speak and to be heard by Lord Lannister.

She had a duty, and a debt, to Tyrion.

Sansa kept her smile and let her focus drift to the figure emerging behind Ser Jaime.

Tywin did not return her smile; he never did, not truly, but she liked the way his eyes lost some of their rigidity when he looked at her.

_Mayhaps that was the way he looked at Lady Joanna_, she smiled brighter toward him at the thought.

"Jaime," Tywin did not notice or care that the two people he walked amongst may have been in conversation, "King Tommen is sitting court, I want you there as well."

Jaime reapplied his arrogant smile and turned to his father, "Yes, a lion to bolster a kitten, of course."

Tywin did not address his son's twaddle with words; his look, however, seethed his castigation.

With an exaggerated turn and bow, Jaime excused himself from Sansa's presence, then pivoted on his heels and drawled long and sarcastically as he passed his father, "Hear me roar..."

Sansa wore a look of slightly grim embarrassment as she watched him leave; when he was gone, she turned to view the city once more.

Tywin watched her throughout; watching her response to the _Young _Lion, looking for something, anything, but finding nothing.

"And what did my son want?"

Sansa turned her head toward her husband, her look now pensive.

"He only just joined me when you arrived," it was the almost the truth, but, by the stony resolve in his eyes, it was not enough information for Lord Tywin, "Looking for air, I suppose," her words were flat, as she regarded the city once more.

He scoffed at her, "I'm _sure_."

Tywin observed her further; the winter sun made her squint, it also made the blue of her eyes lighten to grey.

_From Tully to Stark with an icy change in the weather_. _Fitting_.

But it was her hands that caught his attention, he was sure they were warm in the gloves he had had crafted for her; they rested, almost floated, on the cold stone in front of her.

He did not know what prompted him to place his own gloved hand beside hers, but he did. It was large in comparison, long and delicate to scale.

He scoffed again, this time at his own asinine frivolity, and took in the same view as his wife.

It was a handful of minutes before he felt a warm pressure against his arm; Sansa had taken to doing that, leaning on him. It wasn't anything heavy, he was positive it looked like nothing more than his wife standing close. It was, he was sure, more so a reassurance of his presence - or, perhaps, a reassurance of hers.

Without looking, he turned the hand closest to her palm-up and slipped it under hers. His mouth twitched as he felt her fingers twine into place, and her body lean into him harder.

_Reassured indeed_.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

She waited until they had supped and were sitting at their desk to approach Tywin in regards to Tyrion.

Jaime's words had an impact, and Sansa found herself again trying to fathom the callous disregard a father could have for a son in relation to her own family; and it was making her feel dizzy and distracted.

"Would you prefer to be elsewhere?" Tywin's serious voice, edged in irritation, could gain the attention of the deaf.

She blinked at him, embarrassed to be caught out, "Apologies, my lord, no."

Her voice was sincere, but still distracted and Tywin did not need any special skill to know where his wife's attention lay.

"If he's smart, he will take the black and be done with it," he was firm, but afforded Sansa something that could be taken as a softened look.

She looked thoughtfully, hopefully, at her husband and readied herself for the words she needed to speak, "He'll die in the North, you know that."

Tywin's eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened as he inspected his wife, determining whether he truly comprehended what she was saying.

It was an odd feeling not to be sure of his instinct; she was too clever to willingly disclose the information he needed to confirm his suspicion, but he was no fool either; her wiles worked only on those who did not have an intimate knowledge of her, everyone _other_ than him.

"If that is his fate, so be it." he replied coolly.

He was fascinated by the slight pull of her brow and subtle working of her jaw; he did not like to see her wear his attitude wholly, but when the actions were delicate, it made him feel light.

Sansa spoke softly, but with a seriousness that had become her own, "You can't mean that."

"I do." he answered casually and without hesitation.

Tywin looked at his wife, her posture was one of disappointment, and it affected him. He did not like to be second guessed in the most general of circumstances, but to be doubted by Sansa felt like a physical blow, and, as his face hardened to a scowl, it triggered his ire.

"Why are you choosing to be so blind, Sansa?" he pulled his brow down even further, "As Tyrion lives and breathes, he will always taint house Lannister."

His eyes were made of stone, his voice turned dark, "I _cannot_ disinherit him; it would prove weakness, do you understand?"

She _did_ understand, though she _did not_ agree.

She had to try and save her friend from wrongful guilt and certain death, "Exile him," she let her idea speak on its own, "send him across the sea. Bury him in a foreign land, but at least allow him to live as he wants."

Tywin narrowed his eyes at her, "He has been brought to trial for murdering _the King_, and you want the Hand of the King to not only _allow_ him to escape, but provide the means as well?" his tone was deadly.

"No, my lord," _her _tone was neutral, "I am making an inquiry to a father who has the means to save his son."

Sansa watched her husband's features sink to a depth signifying total fury.

"That _thing _you call my _son _has a penchant for whores," he snarled at her, cocking his head slightly he continued, "Mayhaps his taste has extended to noble ladies."

He watched his wife jolt her chin back, her eyes gaining their own fiery fury at the insult of his words.

He curled his lip and growled, "Exactly, what was it you _did _with him in your godswood?"

The cruel, demeaning words hit her as fast and as hard as her palm struck the place of their origin.

Heartbeats were the extent of time it took for both of them to stand.

Tywin did not reach out or physically touch his wife, but he used the bulk of his body to pace her backward until she came to a painful halt; running herself, full tilt, into a side door of the sitting room.

He slammed each of his palms on either side of her head and brought his face no more than a hands width away from hers. It was as if he was taunting her to strike him again.

"How _dare_ you," she breathed at him, full of her own version of rage.

Tywin seethed, "How dare _you_."

Her voice was almost whispered, her eyes remained trained on his, each word was accentuated, "He is your son-"

Still in her face, still caging her in, he became brutal, "Your broken womb sloughing out my child does _not_ make you a mother, it makes you a _failure_ and hardly an authority on raising children."

The tears, disgust, and defeat he was expecting from the girl in front of him were nowhere to be seen.

His words should have cut her open; her husband slung them like a blade and he meant them to injure. She should have been doubled over and bleeding tears; but she couldn't. She was too caught up in the face of the man trying to inflict damage on her.

Time ticked to something unmoving and Sansa could see, as clear as the air she was looking through, that with every word that left his mouth, Tywin's eyes filled with pain. That with every attempt to verbally strike her down, he was crumbling twice as hard and twice as deep.

He was destroying himself unknowingly because he, himself, was hurting.

Stoicism reflected in her words, "He didn't murder _her_, Tywin."

His jaw snapped shut and Sansa could see the muscles working under the skin there.

In an instant, the pain in his eyes turned to wrath, he brought his hand back behind him and swung it forward again in a large vicious arc. He struck the heavy wooden door with so much force, Sansa's ears rang and she bounced slightly from the impact.

However, when she focused again, his teeth were bared, his face was twisted in rage, but his eyes were dismal.

Her forehead pinched slightly in concern and, at the same time, her small hand reached out and settled on his cheek, in his whiskers.

She had expected him to fling her hand away, at the very least baulk at her sentimentality, yet his brows raised high and his every feature contorted with aching sadness.

Using no more than pressure at her fingertips, Sansa pulled his head toward her and let him find his own peace by burrowing his face into the bend at the base of her neck. She could hear his breath huffing, feel the hot puffs warming her through her gown, she brought her other hand up and stroked the back of his neck.

Tywin's palms came off the door and caressed her upper arms lightly.

His wife replied to his touch by stroking his neck with a heavier hand and pulling him into her warm inviting skin. He wanted to stay there, it was where he felt free and unburdened, like he used to with Joanna.

_No_, he corrected himself, they were two very different women and he felt differently with each; but the end result was the same.

It _was_ the same and he hated himself for allowing it.

Sansa felt her husband's body wrench severely; his position did not change; however he coughed out a sound that prompted her to hold him even closer, tighter.

It was not a sob of sorrow or anything pertaining to tears; it was as though his body was forcing out a lungful of bitterness and anguish; expelling hurt.

They stood like that, in a position of solace, for what could have been days; neither cared.

It was Tywin who finally moved.

He nudged his forehead along her jawline and up her cheek, like a cat seeking attention, but it was accompanied with a keening throat-noise signifying frustration.

When he pulled away from her she could see the same hurt in his eyes from before as they passed her field of vision. But when he stood to full height, he tilted his head back and inhaled deeply; and when he made the slow return to look at her again, his mouth held a scowl and his eyes were frozen in seriousness.

She felt him start to break contact, so she gripped tight the sleeves connected to the arms and hands that were once holding her.

"No."

It was all he said, emotionless, and Sansa let him go; let him turn and leave, knowing her attempt to save Tyrion's life had been fruitless.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

_She is standing in the outer ward, except, instead of dirt and sawdust under her, it is hot sand; her feet are almost burning in the crimson slippers that covers them._

_The sun is golden and bright, there is a cool breeze but there is no snow; it isn't winter this time, and there is no one populating the audience pavilions. _

_"You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."_

_The words are echoing around her, but there are no walls from which they can bounce. The longer she waits, the louder they ring. _

_She is frightened; she can feel that at the core of her. _

_She wants to run, but when she attempts to raise her foot, it is as though it's made of lead, and keeps her rooted._

_"You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."_

_The sand around her feet begins to vibrate; the small mounds and tiny dunes are flattening, as sheets of grains are quaking out in the same rhythm as the vibrations. _

_The intensity of the shaking is increasing, and it is a sudden ominous realization that it isn't emanating from the ground, but it's a physical force getting closer._

_"You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."_

_She is concentrating on trying to move her now burning feet, when a shadow covers her. Looking toward the shade, she strangles out a scream at the giant in front of her. _

_The mountain of a man is clad in plate made of flesh and bone, some fresh, some old, all putrid and festering; and he is getting closer._

_"You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."_

_The words sound like they are singing about her, a battle cry or a prayer hymn, she isn't sure, but the giant is almost on her and her feet are still anchors._

_As the monster gets closer, his shadow gets colder; she can see her breath and wisps of snow._

_It's only a moment that she is distracted by the comfort of the familiar weather, but it is all that's needed for the rancid giant to be on her. He doesn't even stop to consider her, he clasps his fist around her throat and her head is tilted all the way back just to accommodate the massiveness. He's not squeezing, but he lifts her, her anchors nothing more than toys, and brings her close to his helm._

_At this proximity she can see the teeth and hair and bits of skin and meat built into the horrible armour; it makes her retch, but her head is at such an angle that the sickly spasm is denied exit and settles as a pain in her chest._

_"You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."_

_Her mouth is moving; the words are hers._

_"You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children."_

_She feels rage and sorrow building inside her and it gives her strength, and takes it away, equally._

_"You raped her. You murdered her. You kill-"_

_The fist holding her tightens and she has to strain the muscles in her neck just to swallow air into her lungs._

_At the same time the abomination is leaning in to her, his grip is constricting further._

_"Elia of Dorne." _

_The booming voice rattles her teeth._

_"I killed her screaming whelp."_

_She feels the carnage-coated gauntlet biting into her flesh._

_"_Then_ I raped her."_

_Stabbing white points of light start hindering her vision, her lungs are burning for air._

_"Then I smashed her fucking head in like this."_

_She feels a shift in their position, watches the shadow stretch back and poise to strike. She's choking on the blood she can taste in her mouth and her hands are clawing at the viscous gore, covering the beasts face. _

_In a beautiful, terrible instant her fingers find a seam, leverage to pull, and she yanks with everything she's made of; her nails breaking and ripping out with the effort; but the cover is free and gone._

_The blood-helm removed, she will face the monster so eager for her death._

_She forces her eyes wide so she can see past the strangulation, and the eyes that stare back are green._

_Green with flecks of gold. _

_She can feel herself weeping, hot tears contrasting the cold of Tywins shadow._

_He smiles at her, and for the briefest of heartbeats she thinks he has recognized his mistake._

_"The prince was not _hers_ to marry."_

_Her wide eyes capture the quick movement of the impossibly large fist that is about to end her life-_

Gasping for air and sitting upright, Sansa could feel herself shaking as the fog of sleep slowly rolled off her.

The vivid dream, as well, was drying up and blowing away, but the residual fear and horror were what was making her tremble in the dark of their bedchamber.

_Their_ bedchamber.

She cautiously turned her head toward the man laying next to her; quietly letting out a breath of relief at his continued sleep. She could not fathom seeing his eyes; not yet, not even in the dark of the room; there was enough light with the full moon in the window she would have surely seen her nightmare.

The sack of King's Landing was something she knew in passing. Something neither her father, nor anyone else, expanded on except to say it was a barbarous necessity to crown a new king.

So when she absently mentioned it to Tywin after witnessing the atrocious death of one man and listening to the painfully slow demise of a second for the sake of the death of a third, she expected no more than what she had been told previously.

A queasiness emerged from the pit of her stomach at the thought of the details, _of the truth_, he had told her. He would not lie and asked her pointedly if she wanted to hear what he had to say; she should have known better.

She _did_ know, and _that_ was worse.

Tywin Lannister was a ruthless, cruel man, who cared no more for babes and princesses than he did for the smallfolk shredded to tatters in the Riverlands.

Sheep.

_"The prince was not _hers_ to marry."_

Another _truth _he told of the matter, one that Sansa easily, horribly stitched into the reality of her husband's motivations. Another slight, known to those who caused it or not, was another debt to be paid, which created even more debt which was ultimately paid by the charming prince.

More blood.

It was always blood, death, and misery; they were the currency of vengeance. Traded commodities as valuable as gold, silver and copper; more so, some would say, because life is something precious, priceless.

Sansa knew differently, she knew that vengeance cheapened everything it touched, even the lives involved; the vengeance she had allowed in the name of her family had cheapened her own life, but it was a burden she carried willingly.

And that was the crux of it; how you bore that weight of responsibility.

Her father bore the onus of reprisal as a cloak, he wore it for all to see; in his face, in his actions, in the way he raised his children. Eddard Stark walked the steps of retribution, only to turn around and face his own; whether it was by making amends to families or by owning the guilt by adding another layer to his ever-weighted cloak.

Her husband ate his revenge like a meal; he swallowed it, digested it, and carried on without care or remorse. Tywin Lannister focused solely on the actions he took, not the repercussions left in his wake; and that was something of a tragedy. Every bite of harm and debt he consumed, consumed _him _in some way.

But perhaps that was the natural course of retribution, she thought, in that it had its own debts to be paid.

Her_ husband_...

She should be horrified of the man with whom she shared a bed, with whom she laid with - so full of want and desire when she did. She should be horrified of herself for not only giving her mind and body so willingly, but for taking of his with the same amount of passion.

But every time she felt something new, even outside physical intimacy or gained knowledge and secrets, she found she wanted, _needed_, more; and her husband was the only person who could provided what she sought.

Her dream rounded on her again; the bestial giant in the midst of killing her. She did not know what to make of it, but what she _did_ know was that if she squandered her focus on a dream, she would have a thousand scenarios of equal validity and be no closer to defining it. The only thing she would gain would be distance; distance from properly protecting herself from the very real, very deadly, nightmares that walked around her every day.

Closing her eyes again, she concentrated on breathing, on clearing her mind, on how she could see Tyrion before...

Her eyes shut tighter at the thought of losing one more person she cared for.

When she blinked them open, her vision naturally adjusted to her dim surroundings and she shifted her attention to the large window with the soft white light shimmering through it.

The weather was bitterly cold that day and it had carried into the night, making the moon even brighter.

Then she caught it.

At the berm of the luminous wedge of light was a form.

With stabs of fear and panic rocking through her, Sansa fought back her instinct to scream at the intrusion of whatever was with them in the privacy of their room.

It was not moving; it gave her a chance to scrutinize it. She resolved that if there was motion, she would alarm the deadly man sleeping next to her.

All at once, the pieces assembled into recognition; the height, the golden curls... Tyrion...

But now she was confused, she had watched him being lead to the black cells...

It was her choice to spectate the trial by combat, Tywin did not give her a directive either way, but she _had _to be there for Tyrion; even if it meant sitting at a point midway between each side of the trial, in a position made to look impartial, with the man, his father, who categorically doomed him.

She was starting to make out the finer details; her mind registered the features she knew by heart. The moonlight was glittering in Tyrion's eyes, mismatched as they were, and his mouth was a small solemn line. He was looking at her; she could see that as well.

His posture; however, was not casual or even tensed in anger. He looked readied, but she was unsure if that was an accurate interpretation because half of him was bathed in black shadow.

Until another kind of glittering caught her attention. It was duller than the radiance of Tyrion's eyes, but just as lethal.

He held a crossbow, pointed barebow in her direction; the string in its catch, she could see the bolt, from tip to fletching. Sansa knew this weapon intimately; she had been tormented and threatened with one for so long.

_So long ago_.

They just stared like that, neither moving nor making a sound.

Tyrion knew she could easily call for help; he half expected it. He did not want to hurt her, she had to know that, his aim was the man at her side.

He had been fueled by a peerless hate and need for vengeance to reach the point where he stood, at the end of his father's bed; but when Sansa sat up, obviously distressed from a dream, his resolve faltered.

It was as if his mind forgot that she would be there, wrapped up in his furor as he was.

Her eyes were wide, but calm; he could see the blue in them. As dark as the night and room were, her eyes caught even the vaguest of light and it allowed them to radiate as though it were the brightest of days.

But she did not move.

Not even when he watched his father's hand come up beside her and stroke a tender path from her shoulder to her elbow, then move to rest over her hands sitting folded on her lap at her middle.

But she did not speak.

Not even when he heard his father's sleep addled voice arise from a point behind her.

"Sansa, you're alright, love. You're safe."

Tyrion watched Sansa's breathing deepen only a fraction as she remained silent and unmoving.

_Love_.

Tywin only said it to her when he was teetering on either side of sleep. Sansa initially thought he was mistaking her for Joanna and that the endearment was meant for a ghost; but it became quite clear that he was addressing _her _when his words would be accompanied by her name and a touch or a kiss.

It was special to her and she kept each instance locked away inside of herself; but, this time, she felt nothing but unease.

She felt Tywin's hands curl around hers a bit tighter before he spoke in his groggy voice again.

"Come, lay down; you're shivering in the cold."

Sansa did not want to take her eyes off Tyrion, did not want to be left unknowing; but she was well aware that if she stayed upright, her husband would wake fully and rise as well.

Her choice made, Sansa laid back slowly, letting the hand resting at her middle guide her descent. It was that same hand that tucked itself around her fully and pulled her into the warm body beside her. She turned to her side, away from Tywin, and allowed him to fit against her; coiled tight and possessive, as he was apt to do.

She could make out the arm Tywin had under her head and grabbed for it. Pulling it to bend naturally at the elbow, it now draped down the front of her and she found herself hugging it tightly; more tightly than she normally would, but she couldn't stop her need to do so.

It was fear, and she was torn.

Sansa knew that Tyrion had suffered at the whim of his father, she understood his disdain, but she never thought he would be pushed to kill; pushed to _become _Tywin.

Her next thoughts were selfish and necessary; if Tywin died, she would, again, be a ward of the realm - of the Queen. Regardless of what name she was married to, she would always be a Stark, and without the husband who erased that name, Sansa was as good as dead herself.

At that, a pang of panic rippled to her belly and she held onto him fiercely. She could feel his fingers tighten in the thick fabric of her nightgown, a response to her frantic clutching, and with it was another pang, this time of sobering comprehension; she did not want Tywin Lannister, _her husband_, to die either.

There was a tired growl in her hair, "Are you _quite _alright?"

She was not.

All she could see in her mind's eye was a bolt and fletching highlighted in the glow of the moon.

She let go of his arm and turned, with some effort, in his tight embrace until she was facing him in the dark. Sansa could not find any words, but she felt she had to move quickly; placing her palm against his shoulder she pressed to indicate he was to lie on his back.

"_What_ do you _want_-" he snarled, but was cut off by her quiet urgent protest.

"_Please_." she squeaked and pushed harder.

No sooner was he on his back than she was overtop him like one of the many furs already piled on them.

Tywin huffed and groaned his annoyance and pain; her climb was hurried, scratching in places, pressing uncomfortably in others, prying at and adjusting her nightdress to accommodate her move; until her knees were on either side of his waist, her arms were tucked against his sides, and her face and head were nestled firmly into the side of his neck.

_...as good as dead herself..._

It was only after Sansa's breathing calmed to something near normal that Tywin grouched, "_What_ is wrong with you?"

"I-I'm afraid." It was the truth whispered into his skin.

_...as good as dead herself..._

She rose and fell with his deep inhale and exhale, then felt fingers gently stroke their way under her braid to the back of her neck.

"This will _not_ be a habit."

The statement was curt and sounded angry, but the touch on her skin spoke differently, so she listened to the latter.

She did not sleep, even when Tywin's own slumber became hypnotizing; not until the morning light replaced the moonlight, when her eyes burned and could not stay open any longer.

_...as good as dead herself..._

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

How long she slept, she could not discern.

She remembered being woken slightly when Tywin calculated how best to remove her from his body and being carefully tucked in once he was successful; outside that, her sleep was heavy and her dreams were nonexistent.

When Sansa finally woke, it looked like evening again and upon inquiring to a maid that had been seated and waiting in a small alcove by the fireplace, her suspicion was confirmed.

"It's just past supper m'lady," her maid talked as she bathed and dressed her charge, "Lord Tywin said t' let you sleep," the maid plaited her hair and didn't miss a beat, "an' make sure someone was waitin' at the ready."

Sansa's thoughts went to Tyrion and her heart grew heavy and ashamed. She would not have been able to watch him die, but she should have honored him by being _awake_, at the very least.

As she flicked her eyes to the place where she saw him standing the previous night, she seriously considered his presence could have been a dream; mayhaps a walking-dream of her own. However, the reality she confirmed, just as blood flowed in her veins, was that he _had_ been there. That he _had_ been armed; and that she, and Tywin, still lived.

_Tyrion_...

She remained withdrawn through the familiar tugs and pulls of her hair; she had been wearing it down more in the cold weather and was somewhat disappointed when the routine ended quicker than usual.

But as Sansa stood, her maid produced a long rectangular paper parcel and held it out, "M'lord wanted you t' open it first thing."

It was then that she realized there had been no gossip. Her maids were silent in the presence of her husband, but they knew they had a woman looking for companionship in their lady; they weren't friends, but Sansa's maids were not afraid to speak in front of her, or _to_ her.

"Deena," Sansa ensured her words were soft and welcoming, "what of Lord Tyrion?"

She watched her maid's face fall to a look of gravity, so much so, the other woman's eyes dropped to her feet. The change in demeanour spoke louder than words; threats had been made.

It raised more questions than it answered, and suddenly the additional sleep seemed welcomed.

Lady Sansa took the gift with a gentle smile and dismissed her handmaiden.

Sitting down again she examined the package; it was more than one layer of thick parchment, like the type used for correspondence, folded on each side with two crimson ribbons wrapped over each side and sealed at their intersection with the Lannister lion pressed into a melted circle of golden wax.

It was the same pomp Tywin used, as the Hand of the King, to communicate with foreign royalty and higher standing lords and dignitaries.

There was something in it, she could feel that with her fingers, but the thickness of the paper made it impossible to identify what it was exactly.

Setting it on the small table's hard surface, Sansa broke the seal and pulled the ends of ribbons.

She was about to open the folds of paper when she had a white-hot wave of panic.

_Tyrion_...

Her husband was many things, and more, but she had to believe he would not torture her with some gruesome artifact of her friend. She _had_ to believe.

Inhaling deep through her nose, Sansa opened the many layers of paper; and while the contents were not horrific, they _were_ frightening.

Wrapped neatly, in grand fashion, she had been gifted an extraordinarily average crossbow bolt.

_...as good as dead herself..._

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Lyol met her in the sitting room and relayed Tywin's request that she meet him in his solar.

The steward would not defy his lord by speaking more than he was commanded, but the look he carried in his eyes told a tale of worry - one that Sansa smiled reassuringly at.

She had left her _gift_ tucked away securely in her possessions; it was not a key to admittance or discussion, so she kept it as a reminder... of a friend, of a choice, of a path taken by each of them.

When she entered the smaller room, she immediately noticed the roaring fire; and the silent, brooding lion in front of it.

There was only a slight hesitation before she walked in further.

Tywin refused to look at her; the only acknowledgement he gave to her existence was raising his hand and pointing to a chair that was positioned slightly askew in front of him; silently commanding her to sit.

Whether he was treating her like this to leverage control or to simply insult her, she did not know; but in the years of her marriage, she knew well enough to not let it bother her. Gestures were just that, and unless he moved to physically touch her, they held no concern.

With that, she took the seat being offered and looked earnestly at the man staring into the hearth instead of at his wife.

He kept his eyes away and addressed her degradingly, "I have been either _with _you, or _in _you; so I know you didn't free him." Tywin took a calming breath and kept his focus on the flames, "You saw him, in our room, didn't you?"

In her position on the chair, she was almost facing him; but she might as well be in another room entirely. Her husband was stewing in his anger, and it made it seem that he was talking _through_ her.

She would not lie to him. She knew he knew the truth, and to deny it would be unnecessarily complicated for both of them.

"Yes, I did." Another hard-learned lesson was to only provide enough information as required to answer a question. Sansa could have elaborated on _where_ she saw him, at approximately what time, and that he was armed, but it would only served to spark Tywin's suspicion and add more questions to his agenda.

She watched his jaw work, and heard his teeth grinding - something he only did when he was truly wroth.

He bared his teeth and gritted, "_Why_?"

There was no easy answer for _that _question; _those _questions.

Why did she not wake him? Why did she choose Tyrion over him? Sansa supposed it was the latter question her husband had truly posed.

Tywin saved her _any _answer.

"You owed him _nothing_." he hissed, flicking his enraged eyes at her for only a second.

Sansa looked down at her hands; she knew anything she said would not budge Tywin in his opinion of Tyrion, but her husband's dour words would not change hers either.

"I owed him plenty." Sansa's tone was soft, speaking the words to her lap.

"When Joffrey had me stripped," she took an involuntary breath that shuttered in both directions, "when I had already been beaten and was waiting for more; I _knew _there was a good chance I would die that day," she looked at him then, he was still peering past her, his jaw was working furiously, but his eyes held a slight softness. "Tyrion walked in, in _your_ stead, and ended my suffering, ended my humiliation."

Sansa hardened her voice, "He saved my life that day." Tywin met her eyes, "I owed him _plenty_, my lord."

He flicked his vision beyond her again and she watched his countenance shift and tick through levels of ire and, hopefully, understanding.

Tywin settled on her again after several long minutes, and spoke in a bottomless tone, "His death will be slow and vicious; _you've _ensured that."

He watched his wife look to her folded hands and mull her considerations; she was taking too long and he found himself training his gaze on the fire instead of chastising her hesitation.

"I'm not sorry."

It was the answer he was expecting from her, dawdled by youth and inexperience.

Tywin aimed his eyes at the flames in front of him and his sardonic discourse squarely at his wife.

"I _know_; and while you've freed a condemned man in the short term, you've saved the life of his condemner in the long term," he blinked long and slow, accentuating the pause, "The same man you are bound to," his eyes flicked to hers, his speech turned corrosive, "Some would call you impressively stupid; myself included."

The lull between them drew out; Tywin flicked his glare away and flexed his jaw.

"I didn't save you, my lord," Sansa's words interrupted the prolonged silence; they were gentle but firm and were directed, along with her regard, at her husband.

Lannister green snapped to and focused sharply on Tully blue, as a sneer tore through his words, "Really? What would you call draping yourself over me like a _fucking shield_?"

She kept his eye and took a long breath, "My lord, I would call it saving _myself_."

Tywin's eyes immediately narrowed and his upper lip began to curl in ridicule. She could hear him grinding his teeth again and watched as he deliberated his hatred and malice. He turned away from her though, sparing her no hurtful words or observations; his attention back to the fire, she could see plainly that he was still thinking.

In their quiet, observing the man before her, Sansa hoped Tywin could decipher her intentions; that she had _not_, in fact,chosen Tyrion over him. It was not an accident, it was not the happenstance of her actions influencing an outcome, it was purely the truth of it.

She valued each separately, differently, and chose them both equally.

When Tywin huffed angrily then sat up straighter, Sansa watched his features smooth to his natural impassiveness, flick his eyes to her then nod his head. It was terse, but it was all she needed to know he had understood and, begrudgingly, accepted her decision.

There would be a cost, she knew, somewhere, somehow, but she would bear it willingly. As it stood, she could tell he had dropped the matter and was mentally moving on; not from Tyrion, but from _her_.

Her use to him as an angle of harm against his son or to further his gain in the matter, in general, was at an end.

Deep in her thoughts in the quiet room, Sansa was brought out of them by Tywin's matter-of-fact voice.

"Your mother has become an outlaw."

Sansa blinked several times, rearranging her internal cogs and gears to accommodate a new conversation and line of thought.

"My _mother _is dead, my lord." It was a practiced response; one that Tywin called a delusional falsity, one that she defended as truth.

He was of no mood to argue, yet again, about truth and perception, "As you say my lady; _however_, the Westermen hanging from their necks will disagree."

Sansa was not shocked at the news, he could see, she was digesting it though. Slowly.

His patience was nowhere to be found, so he continued, "She will be hunted, Sansa. You must know that."

"I do, my lord." she clipped, not unkindly, but without hesitation.

Tywin looked at his wife then, raised his chin, and looked at her through half lids, "Yet you will continue..." he offered a smirk that looked more like a lazy grimace, "as you _have been_, regardless."

Again, with her lovely natural tone, her eyes just as sure as his, she did not hesitate, "I will."

He stood then, walked calmly to his wife, gently reached his hand out to hold the back of her head, and pulled her forward; he lightly caressed his fingers through the loose wisps hair under her plait, and softly kissed her forehead.

Normally, she would expect her husband to continue his stride out of the room; but, instead, he twisted her length of braid around his hand; the tensity applied was not uncomfortable and was used more to gently turn and pivot her head at varying angles; Tywin was inspecting a face he'd seen a thousand times.

He was still looking at her through half lids, and it was not lost on Sansa that her husband was breathing heavier.

Tywin's face had not moved and where his lips once met her forehead, the pull he applied to her hair tilted her head back until her mouth was there instead.

Her lips were parted a tiny amount and when his mouth descended again, hers opened further, willingly. She kissed him back confidently with purpose; even with the restriction of his hand firmly holding her hair, she forced her way through it in order to return his affection; it caused Tywin to growl on her tongue and make a conscious effort to keep his knees.

When he pulled back from their kiss, he sucked her bottom lip and grazed it with his teeth; the sound his wife moaned into the pocket of air they were sharing made his cock throb.

She was watching him, her eyes wide and just starting to haze into lust, her cheeks just starting to pink, her chest just starting to heave.

Tywin smirked at her, control having been established; then, just as easily, it was dismantled, as her fingertips swept against the hardness in his breeches, making him pant quick and shallow.

He let go the grip on her hair and lightly kissed the lips she had kept tipped up and seemingly waiting for him; lingering in their sweetness, smirking again, for only a moment, before he stood, turned, and left her.

Through his actions, Sansa knew her husband was not praising her defiance and support of her mother, nor was he condemning her defiance and support of Tyrion; he was, in fact, encouraging her challenge.

Some men settled their want of strategy and tactics by playing cyvasse; Tywin Lannister played with _real _pieces, for _real _stakes; wagers set and paid in lives and blood.

It was a game the old Lion played with lethal efficiency, and he knew to his depthless gratification that Sansa had skill in her own right.

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_** A huge thank you to my beta, content developer, researcher, sounding-board, and internet life-partner: dealbreaker19 **_


	4. Weather pt I

***Note:** This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence and abuse. Please be aware of your own sensibilities and proceed accordingly.*

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Tywin woke his wife at an early hour. Not excessively early, mind you, the sun was over the horizon but early enough to take her where he intended then begin council within an acceptable time.

His error had been in not informing her the previous evening that he would require her company, thus enduring the long, tedious, process of waking her. His wife had the uncanny ability to speak coherently, alluding to wakefulness, only to drop into a sound sleep once he, or her handmaid, had walked away.

After half a dozen attempts to let Sansa wake civilly his flickering agitation turned consistent and he scooped her out of the heated cocoon of their bed.

He stood her in front of him, her eyes narrowed and blinking, as they were apt to do when one was just woken by standing in air colder than what they had been used to; her sleepy expression slowly molded to a look of annoyance at being removed from her nest of furs and coverings.

Tywin scoffed at his wife's drowsy attempt at anger, "Prepare yourself quickly, my lady."

She was nodding absently as he spoke and prattled her, "Yes, my lord." through a badly stifled yawn.

For as much as she looked out of sorts, his wife readied quickly, much to Tywins approval; dressed and bundled for warmth.

They walked the keep, her gloved hand on his arm, in silence. Sansa did not know exactly where her husband was leading her; they had taken more than one turn she was unfamiliar with, but it seemed as though they were in the center of the castle.

She could hear distant chatter and scrapes and clinks of either a kitchen or a laundry; it sounded friendly and made her smile.

It would not last long however, as Tywin turned her, their guards in tow, down a narrow passage that was almost entirely in the dark.

The air was getting colder with every step, her breath clouded the air - even though she could not see it. She gripped her husband tighter.

When they came to a stop in the blackness, Sansa heard one guard careening into the other behind her; in the same instant she felt Tywin pull her in front of him, embracing her snugly as the distinct shove of his body told her he took the impact of the sightless men - shielding her from injury.

_A debt paid_. her mind affirmed to itself - whether it was in humour or not was not dwelled on.

"F-Forgive me, m'lord." one of the guards fearfully offered.

She felt Tywin straighten and twist to address the men behind them.

"Run into me again and you will spend a sennight in stocks learning to watch your feet."

Lord Tywin did not utter a threat, though it was flung like one, nor was it a boneless taunt; it was a problem and its solution. No more, no less.

The men knew better than to speak another word, allowing their liege to continue in his task.

Tywin had no issue navigating in the murk, as he sidestepped around her with the fluid grace he was known for, and worked to rattle open what she identified as a door.

She heard him huff and pull on the stubborn latch until she began to see slivers of light define the large rectangle egress.

When he opened the door fully, it was like another world; Sansa smiled as her nostrils stuck closed and her lungs coughed in the all-consuming cold.

It was an inner yard, large like a ballroom, with tall, tall walls enclosing it; and not one window opening up _to_ it. There was no entrance other than the one Tywin had lead her to and, as she crouched a tiny amount and peered up to the sky, winter-bright at the upper edge of the walls, she thought, _unless you can fly_.

It was shady and cold in the deep of it, but that was secondary; her husband held her elbow as she stepped through the door into the space.

She needed assistance to get past the initial drifts of snow pressed against the entrance way.

King's Landing was entrenched in winter but the constant sea winds prevented snow from piling to any significance. It simply blew until it came to rest against the sides of buildings or the curtain walls; it stacked itself high, to be sure, but not in a way that she was used to, not in a way that she could enjoy.

In the small yard the snow was deep, almost to her knees, light enough to walk in but heavy enough that it felt real.

She knew then why he insisted on her wearing two layers of heavy stockings.

When the guards pushed the thick door closed again, it was like they were alone at the bottom of a barrel, where snow blew in on currents of air and could not escape again. It was quiet and still in the depths of the barrel; so much so, she could hear the soft patter of flakes landing on each other.

Sansa turned her head and smiled at her husband, watching him kick through the snow after her. He did not reciprocate but his eyes were soft; he jutted his chin slightly as if to tell her she need not be with him, to move away and enjoy what he had given her.

The smile on Sansa's face widened anyway, in true joy, and Tywin found he could not stop the corner of his mouth twitching.

Turning away from him, his wife walked to the edge of the yard where the snow had piled highest, pushed her gloved fingers into it, picked it up, graded it in her fingertips, and giggled at it.

He ducked his head, tilted his ear upward and appreciated the sound echoing up the walls towering over them.

He would never tell her what the space had been used for when Aerys ruled. The soft white dunes lay at a depth that hid the scars and burns that plagued the ground and a small distance up the edges.

The snow acted as a blanket over the spaces' history of violence.

It was definitely colder in the shadows, their breath came in puffs of white, but it did not seem to bother Sansa. His wife kept her smile made of happiness and pushed her way through the fluffy drifts.

The moment she saw the winter her husband found for her, Sansa was taken to Winterfell. It did not matter that winter only existed in a walled-in box, or that the snow was nowhere near as deep as she remembered.

_I've grown since then_, she smiled in her mind.

What mattered was that it existed as a peaceful place much like the godswood, it was quiet and calm; another world in the center of a city that normally afforded nothing of the kind.

Tywin looked up, the sky was brilliant even in the well they were standing in; more so perhaps. It made him squint but he could see swirls of snow descending, adding to the accumulation on the ground.

He closed his eyes then and reveled in the feeling of brief moments of cold on his skin as flakes fell and landed on his head, face and neck, then melted in the same instant.

He remembered snow, Tywin had lived through his share of winters, but he never really _noticed_ it before, not truly. Never really took the time to see the snow as anything other than a cursed burden - something fit for hardship and death.

But as the vivid laughter of his wife echoed around him, he acknowledged that in some instances it only took perspective to transform misery to happiness; and as he squeezed his eyes tighter he felt the adolescent,_ bloody _foolish_ you mean_, hope that maybe it was through better eyes that _she_ saw _him_.

There was no time to dwell on deep thoughts, as he was struck with a large amount of wet frozen cold, like the falling flakes had congregated and hit him all at once. As he scraped the now sticky snow off his neck and tried to wipe the icy water away to prevent it from continuing to into the warmth under his clothing, he was struck again.

This time the congregated snow had a direction, and Tywin immediately swung his seething eyes to where it had come from.

His anger didn't startle his wife the way it once did, she was able to keep whatever fear she had well within her; the only evidence his moods still garnered effect was how whatever expression her face held, in this case it was mirth and a smile, dropped to one that was blank and stony.

She threw snow at him, and her childish behaviour earned her his ire. Sansa knew that may be the cost, but felt that perhaps his thoughtful generosity also allowed the rarity of his humour.

She was wrong.

"I'm sorry, my lord, I didn't mean to-"

He cut her off with a snarl, "Of course you _meant_ to."

Hers was a calm voice, a trained voice, "I _am_ sorry, my lord."

Tywin walked toward his wife then, taking in how her gloved fingers first brushed off the evidence of her offence then twined into themselves, all the while keeping his gaze.

He stood toe to toe with her and leaned his head down and stared into her gentle eyes.

"I have killed for less."

She knew all too well that the man in front of her spoke the truth.

Sansa considered her husband, measured his words and assessed his posture; more than anything though, she read how his eyes were ticking.

"As you say, my lord; snow is nothing to be trifled with."

His eyes narrowed, the green and gold remained intense and reflective because of the snow, even in the shadowy yard, even when his lids were no more than slits.

It only lasted a moment.

She watched his features soften as his widened eyes drifted over her face; as he methodically removed a glove, tucked it into a pocket beneath his cloak, and used his hot fingertips to melt away a flake of snow that had landed on her eyebrow; he then brushed a few wayward strands of hair from her face - where they had caught on her lips.

Sansa leaned her cold cheek into his warm palm when it came to rest on her there and smiled at him once more, her cheeks red with cold, her eyes bright with contentment.

When he used his other, still-gloved, hand to scoop away the ball of snow clumped thick in his collar, she suddenly felt guilty for throwing it to begin with.

But that guilt melted just as surely as snow at the mercy of any flame, when he leaned a little further down and kissed her gently. She could feel his long fingers moving from her cheek, guiding her head to tilt back further, and his other hand embrace across her back.

Sansa wrapped her own arms around his neck, deepening their kiss as she did so.

His warm fingers on her nape had found their way just inside her collar and were stroking gently - it was stirring her pool of desire and she could not stop an airy moan resonating into his mouth.

Tywin pulled her even closer to him, as close as their heavy clothing would allow, and broke their kiss - mostly for _his_ benefit, so he could breathe again and not lose his wits.

He settled his lips beside her ear and spoke in the low rasping voice his wife had coaxed out of him, "Snow isn't the only thing _not_ to be trifled with, my lady."

Her mind was foggy and could not decipher his words before she felt his fingers tug her collar back and felt his embracing arm shift upward.

This time she could not decipher his _actions_, until the shock of wet cold slid down the center of her comfortably warm back.

Sansa squealed and writhed trying to separate her skin from the cruel unbearable freeze, but with every move she made she found herself held tighter in Tywins arms.

_Treacherous lion_.

The lump of snow made it midway, until the firmly tied corset of her gown finally stopped it and she had to suffer through its transition into water, and wherever _those_ icy fingers decided to travel.

She was still wiggling about, but had started laughing again; Tywin held her even tighter so he could listen, so he could bathe in the joyous noise of his lady.

Tywin mistrusted laughter normally, despised it even, but hers was ethereal; and like her touch, it worked to sooth and calm him on the most primary of levels.

He exhaled a long white cloud and held on.

Her arms cinched tight and she was breathless by the time her ordeal, for the most part, had ended.

Wisps of her hot breath were condensing and freezing in his side whiskers, but somehow the frost was inviting. Her laughter had sputtered to a stop, but she would spasm and giggle when, he assumed, the cold water found a new spot to torment.

"We must go back." his voice was just above a whisper, his mouth still close to the shell of her ear.

She hugged into his neck and he could feel her nod in agreement. When she spoke, her tone matched his.

"Can we visit again, another time?"

It was an innocent question, but Tywin's mind bastardized it; as though she thought he would give her a taste only to cruelly deny her.

But that was _not _what she meant and he _knew _it; he fought through his doubts, self and otherwise, to be able to return her gesture in the embrace they had not moved from, and nod his agreement into her skin.

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Approaching their apartments Sansa softly smiled as a greeting to her guard; he had stayed sentry outside the main door while the gold cloaks that normally had the post followed them throughout the morning.

Her husband escorted her just inside the door, she kept walking, she kept smiling to herself.

Sansa turned and observed Lord Tywin round on his heels to leave once more.

"Tywin," he pivoted at the waist to look at her, she was wearing the smile that was his, "thank you."

She continued to beam, and watched her husband blink quickly and flex his jaw. He was flustered and Sansa knew he would become angry soon enough; the morning had been enjoyable and she did not want to have it spoiled in such a way.

With her lips curved in a sweet grin, his wife inclined her head, slow and shallow; it was a motion normally used to dismiss, but she had used it a handful of times to acknowledge him. Acknowledge that his words were choking him, and that he needn't force anything for her.

At once, it made him grateful and resentful of his wife.

She had a power in her natural considerations, something that could never be learned, something that could sway to equally effective maliciousness if the purveyor of such power should ever choose.

He knew what _he_ would choose, and perhaps that was the root of his resentment.

Tywin took a calming breath, felt his mouth twitch at the corner and spoke in a his serious tone, "You're welcome, my lady."

He turned swiftly and left.

Sansa was still grinning when her handmaids arrived to assist in changing her into a dry gown, something with less layers.

Dismissing her maids, she walked to the window in their bedchamber, the day had only become sunnier, the heat through the glass was deceiving.

One of the many tricks of winter, of snow.

She thought then of Jon, there had been a missive from the wall and even though the letter was not in his hand, it made her feel warmer than the sunlight's embrace.

He was her family, her _only_ family left and living, and whether he knew it or not she held his memory close.

Walking to the sitting room, Sansa made a line to their desk and went in search of the letter from the Nights Watch; she barely registered that the servants door was opened then closed and footsteps were approaching.

She smiled and started talking before her eyes had left the parchment, "Lyol, I was wond-"

In no more than a heartbeat her smile dropped and the back of her neck prickled.

Standing across the room was a large man. He was not superior in height to her husband, but he was wider and did not taper at the waist. Thick through and through. His hair was dark and not overly long, but it was oily - it shone in the worst kind of way - and as she took in what she could see from that distance, it looked as though he was oily everywhere.

He wore no armour, nor did he wear colours or a sigil of any kind.

But he did wear a look in his eyes that kicked her fear into the forefront.

"Lord Tywin is in council, I would recommend taking your business there." it was steely, she did not move or waver. It was a command.

He barked a laugh at her, "My business is _right here_."

Sansa called for her guard, stern and loud; there was no movement outside the massive doors at the entry.

"Keep calling." the man cocked his head and smirked. "Scream even."

Sansa felt cold to her core; that pang of consciousness that let her know it was time to survive. Such a part of her old life, it had been a while since it had rippled through her body, but it was as satisfying as it could be in that moment just to know it was there.

"What is it you want, ser?" ever-courteous, but firm all the same, it was a tone that had been known to stop arrogant lords mid-sentence.

"Y'r gash an' y'r life," he said nonchalantly as he took a long stride toward her, "but haven't decided which t' take first."

"Do you _know _who you are threatening?" she said it at the same time she stepped backward in cadence to the man's advance; it seemed an appropriate question, a redirection to subdue the man's menace.

"Aye, girly," he raised a brow and took another step in her direction, "I know true."

For every step the man made forward, Sansa stepped away; and as she did so, her mind flickered to the Bread Riots. More accurately it flickered to the Hound; to the walking terror that sought to protect her in a way that matched his demeanour.

As she thought and took steps, she noticed that the man's leathers and mail weren't oily at all; they were bloody, it was drying in places and dripping in others.

Her mind threatened to panic until she concentrated; she recalled the speed of the Hound, the pivots and turns he used to avoid attack on that day.

The Little Bird flew.

She was quick, evading the initial grab she saw him make, but his lower height and larger bulk was to his advantage. Instead of aiming for her upper body, the man went low and grabbed the closest things to him - her legs.

Sansa fell forward, hard; she had managed to tuck her forearms in front of her so her body would not take the impact exclusively, but had no time to consider pain or bodily damage before she was flipped to her back with a ferocious twist.

The man straddled her at her waist and as he leaned in to pin her hands, she was consumed with the smell of him.

It was sour and rot, worse than the stink of a man who had not bathed or washed his clothes. She tried to hold her breath to the offensive smell, but it was settling into her skin.

The sour man leaned down to her, breathing heavily on her neck; she tried to turn her head further away but she could not escape his voice.

"I'm gonna fuck every hole you _have_."

He laid more of his weight on her and it was frightening; not the comfort of her husband, not the safety she was used to, _this_ was malicious and restricting.

Her hands pushed and shoved at the bulk of the man, he was unmovable but she would not give up so easily.

She could feel a hard bulge in the sour man's breeches pressing into her belly, she _knew_ what it was.

Sansa felt hot tears leaking over her cheeks and through her fight and jostling the sour man sat up, she could see him smirking.

"That's it girly, struggle for me." he slurped at her, then wiggled - mocking her, provoking her.

With a drooling moan, he let go of her wrists and shifted; kneeing her legs painfully, spreading them so he could kneel there. That was when he reached down and dug in, viciously grabbing her arse in each hand, pulling her center upward roughly, she could hear her skirts tearing, and feel the press of his groin into her center.

He dropped her and his hands came around again, below her knees, searching for her hem, getting past her kicking; scratching and prodding their way under her skirts.

When she prepped to scream, he laid on her again and ate her terror by mashing his open mouth into hers.

His invading tongue was vile and clogging - she gagged into his mouth and it mercifully caused him to stop. But in ceasing his assault on her mouth, it allowed him to concentrate on her body.

She was tiring, her muscles were burning, her lungs ached hot with every breath, like she had inhaled a hundred needles; but if she gave up she knew this man would brutalize her in a way she feared Joffrey would a lifetime ago.

The sour man gripped the wrist of the hand that was repeatedly trying to gouge at his face with such force she yelped at the feeling of her bones compressing. She watched him puppet her hand to his groin and rub the bulge there; the delicate skin on the palm of her hand went raw as it was scraped along the dried leather lacing, over and over.

"Y' feel that?" He ground her hand onto his cock again; she whimpered, but it only seemed to excite him, "Oh, you'll scream for me, whore."

He moved quick and all she could feel was more of his crushing heft; then his teeth on her earlobe, biting her, tearing at her; the air was pushed out of her lungs by how he sprawled on her, she couldn't scream, he brought his face around to her again and laughed at the fear he found painted there.

His grinning lips were smeared with blood, _her_ blood; he ran his tongue over the red, lapping at it.

"I gather y're sweet everywhere, girly."

She didn't have time to be afraid of his words; his other hand, the one that was still groping under her skirts, made its way behind her and she felt his fingers digging at her small clothes, working their way to her backside, clawing their way to her _there_.

Sansa wrenched her body trying to get away from the man's terror, from the suffering that waited for her; but his fingers knew their atrocious trade well, and as they made their dry press, fabric from her small clothes and all, into the place that was unmentionable, she howled a strangled scream and kicked upward with her knee.

She caught him, she hurt him, she didn't care where or how, all she knew was that his hands retracted, let her go, and he yowled in pain.

Struggling from underneath him, she found her feet and made a large lunge for the door.

She did not move.

Her momentum ended before it started and no matter how hard she sprung her legs to run away from the monster at her back, she went nowhere.

The laugh that came from behind her, from the sour man, was a sound of depravity.

Her gown tensed as it reeled her back to the animal looking to play with its prey before killing it; she dropped to her knees and screamed in short sharp waves, matching the tug and pull the sour man applied to her skirts; dragging her onto her back, underneath him again.

He was still on his knees, his eyes were on fire, the rest of him was controlled.

With every wail and flail she threw at the man, his mouth smiled wider, exposing his yellow teeth - just as sour as the rest of him. He was made of it, the stench wasn't something that could be washed away from the man, it was the timber he was built from.

Sansa cried harder; she didn't want to die with _this _in her senses. With _this _taking from her what she gave solely to her husband.

_Tywin_...

Her knee angled and bucked again, but instead of the man letting go like last time; Sansa felt pain at her jaw, heard her teeth clacking off of each other, saw sparks and stars in her line of sight; once, twice, she caught a glimpse of a fist, balled and falling heavy, the impact rocked her a third time before her mind flickered to black then resurfaced to pain and awful reality. That's when she tasted blood, as well as his breath when he bowed close to her face and spat his words.

"I like y'r fight, girly, but it's y'r cunt I want."

With that, one of his hands was under her skirts again and the other hand clamped around her throat; her mind was telling her body to keep fighting, but her muscles still felt like they were shifting from control to blackness.

She was groggy and the haziness around her vision made her consider that, perhaps, this was all a dream.

When she felt the pinch and burn of the ribbons and fabric of her small clothes being roughly ripped away, then bruising fingers pushing her thighs open and jabbing and scratching at her most private area, she knew that her plight was no dream.

All she could hear was blood pounding in her ears and the sound of herself sucking and swallowing air past the grip on her throat; it was not enough.

Her vision was blurring as she watched her hands try to push the man away with all the strength of a little bird.

The name fit again. Differently.

Terribly.

She felt his manhood touching her thigh, nudging at her, so hard and hot and so, so wrong.

_Tywin_...

She wanted her husband. It was all she wanted in that moment and she could feel herself weep fresh tears because he was all that she had, and now she had _nothing_.

Her bladder loosed, prompting the sour man to let go of her throat in order to shove her skirts up over her waist, exposing her shame.

The man groaned and used the hand that had been killing her to pleasure himself at the degrading display of her fear.

He adjusted his body again and she could feel his hardness _there_.

_Oh gods, right _there.

Sansa pushed at him, sobbed harder, clawed at him, weak and useless and defeated, whimpering through her tears, "_No no... please stop... no..._"

He looked at her then, his sour face full of lechery, "Must wa-"

In a blur of colour and shadow, the sour man was no longer on top of her.

Her thighs were thumped and kicked with legs and feet as the shadow and the man slid further away. Too stunned to move, Sansa turned her head toward the tussle; her savior was fighting with high-arched heavy blows falling repeatedly on the sour man.

Sansa's hero subdued the sour man for mere heartbeats and took that time to turn his face to her; she didn't recognize him, she could only see the blood.

His face had been sliced open from his ear to the corner of his mouth; the blood, spread crimson all over and caked black in places, gave him a gruesome lopsided smile. She could see fresh blood bubbling from his neck, and made the appalling connection that his tunic was not, in fact, red to begin with.

It was when he spoke, gurgling blood and full of pain, that she knew him.

"_Run_."

Lyol.

She was on her feet but she couldn't move; instead she made a step to reach for the steward only to be lunged at by the sour man.

Lyol grappled the man again, but it was easy to see that he was outmatched in size and that most of his spirit had bled out already.

"_Run_!" It was all he could cough out through the ribbons of his face.

Sansa watched in horror as the sour man gained the top position over Lyol and rained his own blows until the smaller man cowered and covered his face.

Her eyes flicked to the glitter that was now in the sour man's hand and she squeaked at the knowledge he was wielding a blade.

Lyol had hold of the man's sleeves, trying to control the dirk; he didn't look at her this time, "Sansa! Ru-"

With a muffled squelch, the glitter disappeared into the chest of the older man; there was a groan - of pain or satisfaction, she didn't know, her feet had turned her and were running, she watched herself lift the bar on the heavy outer door.

She could hear muffled cursing and more hissing thumps - one for every plunge of the blade.

Her mind was on fire and her body bolted forward out the door at great speed, but she was thwarted when her feet lost traction and her hands and knees hit the floor of the stone hallway.

It was like ice - slick and dangerous.

Her shoulder took the impact of her precarious slide into the opposite wall, but at the same time she saw that the passage wasn't besieged in ice, but blood.

Her guard lay motionless, awkward, on his face, a great pool of red emanating from under him. There was a girl slumped beside him, on her knees, her face on the floor. The way her head tilted under her weight made the slit in her throat gape like a tree that had been notched to fell.

Sansa recognized the girl as the washerwoman her guard had taken to; they were sweet toward each other-

She had to look away.

Her feet kept slipping out from under her, she couldn't stand in the thick viscous gore and found herself scrambling on her hands and knees, screeching for help and guards alike.

It felt like days, but it had only been moments since she fled her rooms; hindered by her gowns, she kept crawling away from the horror - sometimes on her hands and knees, sometimes on her belly - screaming as she went.

A little further down the hall, there were two more bodies wearing Lannister armour, stacked against the wall, equally as bloody, equally as dead.

She heard rushing footsteps, but could not gain a direction because of the echo in the stone corridor; she froze, curled herself into a tight ball and prepared to die. But as the quick steps got louder she could also hear the familiar clank of armour.

_The sour man wore no armour._

When she raised her head she was looking at Lannister red and gold, and the eyes of soldiers that spoke of both panic and anger. Several hands picked her up, but not one of them said a word.

Sansa heard commands, strong and concise, spoken like Tywin but in a woman's voice; it was her own.

"Apprehend the man inside the apartments; ensure that he lives, and send him to a cell." her eyes were chips of ice and her voice was made of stone, "And retrieve Lord Tywin from council."

In a flurry of acknowledging words and gestures, the men ran to their tasks, a few staying with their lady.

"Find me a room to use, and summon the maester and my handmaids."

Her fear was nowhere; she could not sense it within her, she could only feel anxiousness and a simmering anger.

What she felt was the weight of a debt.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Tywin Lannister did not flinch with any emotion when he was told his wife had been attacked.

Tywin Lannister did not run when he was told of the blood and death within their home.

Tywin Lannister had to stop himself from bawling in shock when he saw his wife; standing rod-straight in a small room that smelled of dust, a scent only made sharper by the cold.

She was bathed in blood, gown and all, and for a heartbeat he thought they had propped up her corpse.

Her face was streaked; the flecks and smears of blood were washed away in some places, signifying tears; her hands were almost black with it.

But it was her dress, coated and ghastly, it threw his mind to seeing her bedgown stained the same way. The same way he still sometimes dreamt of her, only to wake up and find her warm and breathing, stroking his face and kissing him back to sleep.

He looked at her belly, then looked her in her eyes; they were calm and held no fear.

_Sansa came back, ever resilient._

He took a step toward her, and stopped the frown that was threatening to present itself when she took a step back.

Tywin raised a hand, as one would to slow someone coming at them; it was a calming gesture, and seemed to work - when he stepped again, she remained still.

He was just out of arm's reach when he could see her shivering; her face was impassive, her eyes were clear and not hindered by shock.

Looking her over more closely, Tywin could see past the dried and congealing blood on her face and hands. One side of her jaw was swelling and already starting to bruise, and her gown had been soaked through with blood in places; his wife was wet in gore in shivering in cold.

He stood in front of her, made short work of the bone fastenings and yanked himself out of his heavy winter doublet. While the jacket wasn't as constricting as the ones he wore in warmer weather, its removal was noted as soon as the cool air swept into his tunic - and forgotten just as fast.

It was only when he moved to drape it over her that she flinched.

Tywin stopped and questioned her a little too sharply, "Are you injured? They told me you assured them you were unharmed."

Her eyes went wider, but flicked away from his, she spoke confidently but distracted, "I am filthy, my lord."

He flexed his jaw to dissipate his annoyance; of everything that had happened, Sansa was more concerned with the state of his clothing. Tywin was slipping further into anger every time her words repeated in his mind.

_I am filthy, my lord._

_I am filthy..._

Tywin's stomach clenched, then sank in queasiness.

He gathered the fury that was bubbling to the surface, controlled the rage that threatened to consume him.

"Sansa, _tell me true_, did he," he lightly huffed a breath and quirked his eyes in concern, "hurt you... _intimately_?"

Without hesitation she shook her head; an act that doused his anger, and rekindled his annoyance.

Tywin disregarded his wife's apprehension and draped her in the warmth she so obviously needed.

"Put your arms through." he held the sleeves out, giving her room to maneuver within the doublet. Once she was set, he pulled the garment, and his wife, into his body to add to the heat.

Sansa tensed at their closeness, she avoided his eyes, blushed a colour he could see through bruising on her face, and offered her words as matter of fact as she could.

"I... before... I made water on myself, my lord." she flexed her jaw at her embarrassment, shuffling the pain radiating from the side that was swollen, and waited for him to step away.

She was pulled even closer; she rested the unhurt side of her face over the center of his chest and fisted the fabric at the middle of his tunic. There was hot breath on the top of her head and a perturbed serious voice that followed.

"Don't be stupid."

The air caught in her throat, she wanted to scream and strike him with the fists she had already made.

_Stupid_. He dare call her _stupid_ after what she lived through, after _everything_ she had survived.

_I made water on myself._

Revelations were never convenient and, like any truth, they were rarely kind.

She _was_ being stupid.

Covered top-to-toe in the blood of others because someone wanted her life, and she was more concerned about what he would think of her because her body reacted to fear.

She leaned harder into the man holding her. Her man. Her husband.

The longer they stayed like that the more she felt she was absorbing his strength and confidence. Whether that was the truth of it, it hardly mattered; she felt better, stronger, and she would take it gladly.

"Close your eyes, Sansa."

His voice was sudden but mesmerizing, his breath on the top of her head was reassuring, the heat of his body where her cheek rested was lulling; she couldn't _stop _her eyes from closing.

"Do you remember anything the man said?"

Sansa took a deep breath and nodded into his tunic, "Yes."

Tywins thumbs brushed tiny circles on her back, they were muted by the doublet, but they were there all the same; she pressed into him a little more.

He was, again, guiding her with his tone, "Sansa, tell me what he said."

It came out in a torrent, "He knew who I was. He said that he was going to..." she twisted her fingers in his tunic and sounded angry, "rape me and kill me."

She felt Tywin hold her tighter and breathe heavier in her hair; but underlying that, her husband was shivering. He was warm, and the spasms didn't start at his center like they usually did on cold nights when they would initially crawl under the furs of their bed.

These were in his arms, like he was stopping himself, like he was restraining something inside.

"Is that all?" the shiver was in his voice too.

"He told me I would scream for him." it was a hoarse whisper.

Her eyes shut tight and she fought a losing battle with her tears, "Lyol saved me." she choked, "He died saving me."

Her husband did not flinch, did not tense at the mentioned loss of a man he knew for most of his life; he spoke in a tone that was as cold as the room they stood in.

"As he should."

The shivering ended.

Sansa swallowed her sadness then; _all _of it. She bit back her tears and bottled them for herself. _She _would mourn the man, _she _would spend time and thoughts on the man who saved her; but she would do it _without_ Tywin.

As she should.

However, in that instant, in that space, with him, Sansa would be the wife of The Great Lion of Casterly Rock. She would be who she was expected to be and, truthfully, who she _needed _to be at that time.

Tywin pulled away from her slightly, his hands on her elbows, his thumbs still drawing circles where they touched her; Sansa opened her eyes at his movement.

She looked up, looked at him squarely; he was angry, but that was in the background. There was tenderness there, she could easily see that too. In amongst all that though, there was something else, something she could not place directly.

It was not associated with anger or regard, it was more calculating.

There was a gain or advantage presenting itself to him and she just had to wait for him to present it to her as well.

His wife was not afraid, she was not intimidated by her would-be murderer. That meant she was an asset in regards to leverage against the man, and whomever sent him.

Sansa was his edge.

"The man will die. I want you there." his voice was soft, his touch remained gentle, and it was all in contrast to what was spoken.

The words were tricky, her husband didn't give her a directive, he gave her a choice - but _not _a choice at the same time.

He found himself taken by the big blue eyes that stared at him, considered him; two points of sky surrounded by carnage. It was a vision that was terribly beautiful, and when her voice rang, sweet and steel, he had to blink his way out of her charm.

"Of course, my lord."


	5. Weather pt II

***Note:** This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence and abuse. Please be aware of your own sensibilities and proceed accordingly.*

* * *

...

..

.

She had been bathed and dressed for hours before she was summoned by Lord Tywin.

Sitting at the desk in their apartments she had not noticed the sun dropping to evening in the windows behind her. The only indication of time was the presentation and removal of plates of barely touched food and the refill of her watered wine.

She stared, quiet and absent at the tightly woven rush mat in front of her.

It was new, it smelled sweet and still had its natural gleam; it replaced the one Lyol bled his life into.

She stared for so long she tricked herself into seeing the crimson stain wick through and resurface, even though it had been scrubbed out of the wood beneath.

The quiet enveloped her; the guards that had been placed within the room said nothing to their usually approachable lady, adding to the somber mood; it was appropriate.

Ser Kevan was announced and it was with him that she made her way to a place in the Red Keep she feared; it was the place where her father began his end.

A place of suffering.

It was dark, and so far under the frost that the everything dripped and remained wet. It was a horrible place - but that was to be expected, she was there for a horrible reason.

Their destination was dimly lit at the end of the passageway and as they approached, she could see the distinct cloak and armour of Ser Jaime.

Sansa greeted the Lord Commander without her usual dip of a curtsy. Various areas of her body were just starting to twinge in the pain she knew would only intensify in the next days. It was like her mind and body worked in tandem, unburying the cruelty of Joffrey, and recalling how best to deal with the physical aftermath of violence; a blessing and a curse.

Her courtesies, however, would never diminish, "Ser Jaime." she smiled soft.

He looked down at her with a smirk, "Lady Sansa, I'm sorry to hear of your troubles." he raised a brow, "I would offer to guard you myself, but I fear _that_ position is more hazard than it's worth."

It was an awkward jape at best, an outright insult at worst.

"It is a position that requires a _sword hand_."

Tywin emerged out of the shadows of the corridor; his words were aggressive and harsh, but spoken distracted, almost in passing.

If Ser Jaime was hurt by his father he didn't show it; his attention remained of his father's wife.

"Surely you haven't been told this is the _romantic _part of the castle?"

Lord Tywin removed the need for her to answer.

"Lady Sansa's presence has been requested by _me_." he was becoming annoyed.

Jaime turned his head to his father and threw hubris at the man, "For _what _purpose?"

Tywin lost whatever distraction he had, focusing solely, fiercely, on his son, "In whatever capacity I deem necessary."

It was said through his teeth and Sansa knew Tywin was at the limit of his patience. Ser Kevan did too, as she felt him step slightly ahead of her; it was covert, but she knew what he was doing.

"Father, you can't think it wise to invite your _wife _here." Jaime kept his tone light, but his words were biting.

Whether it was one or a combination of things that enraged Lord Tywin, it would remain unknown, however _something _triggered him to roar in hate.

With speed and skill that slept in the old lion, that lulled a foolish few to misjudge him, he got the better of the younger. He curled his hands behind Jaime's breastplate, where it gaped at the pits of his arms and shoved him with such a force that it lifted the knight off his feet, only to come to a crashing halt against the dank stone walls that flanked them in the passageway.

Ser Jaime had his breath knocked from him, Sansa clearly heard his struggle to wheeze in air.

His father looked at him with eyes he had never witnessed being directed at him; Tyrion, yes, but him, never. They were wide, wild green and gold, and radiated the kind of frenzy that made his bowels threaten release.

Jaime Lannister feared for his life.

Tywin turned even more vicious toward his son, digging his forearm into the younger man's throat, "And _you're_ going to be the one to advise me about _wives_? Is that it?"

It was such a broad spectrum of old grudges and wounds presented in so few words that both men faltered in their stare; but it was a soft confident voice that disrupted the tension and allowed for separation between them.

"Ser Jaime, I appreciate your concern, however it is _my _choice to be here." she spoke in the sharp tone her husband preferred, but offered Jaime a tug at the corners of her lips to assure him she was speaking truthfully.

Jaime shook his armour straight and comfortable again, then looked at his father for confirmation. He was rewarded with the same wrathful look as before.

"I'll not be a part of this." Jaime coughed out, still reeling from hitting the wall.

Tywin spoke to his son with the same disinterest he started with, "Go see to the safety of the king, Lord Commander."

Ser Jaime didn't spare her a glance, but it even in the blackness of their surroundings, she was able to see the fury on his face as he swept past her and Ser Kevan.

Kevan was the one to usher her into the small dark room, following Tywin's lead.

The only light was that of torches and a two oil lamps set on a narrow wooden shelf on one side the room. Under that shelf Sansa could see a row of buckets; what was in them remained a mystery, and she wasn't about to inquire.

What made her teeth clench, as well as the hand on Ser Kevan's arm, was what she saw in the middle of the room.

There was a heavy wooden table that looked to have been through battle. It was scarred and gouged to a degree that even her darkest imagination could not fathom the cause.

Bent over the end of the table was a man. They walked in behind the man and it afforded her a view she had to physically swallow back the scandal for. Completely without clothes and his legs spread, she could see every single intimate part of a man she had only ever seen on one body; and thankfully her husband had the foresight to avoid her eyes while she adjusted her sensibilities.

The man was bound, that became clear as she was guided to the side of the room painted in shadows. His thighs had been lashed with a great amount of rope to legs on the table that seemed there only for that purpose; his arms were extended painfully and tied under the table, but she could not see exactly how.

He looked to be tensing against his restraints, testing their hold on him, aside from his head turning direction, and his legs bending below the knees, he was immobilized.

Sansa involuntarily shuddered; her mind slid back to the woman who was her mother and the horror she had been though.

_...lashed me to the end of a table and took their turns. Boltons _and_ Freys._

Again, she found herself adjusting her sensibilities; but when the man spoke, _the sour man_, it was as though her thoughts found voice.

"You mean to fuck me then?"

The sour man smiled and laughed his mocking words to her husband even though he could not see him, and Sansa watched them roll off Tywin like rain would oiled canvas.

She felt fear then.

It was absurd, and she tried to piece it together.

Her terror was no longer a threat, he would die, of that she was sure; Ser Kevan stood impassive, watching his brother with careful consideration; Lord Tywin was steely and unmoving, as was his natural demeanour.

But, in concentrating on his eyes, Sansa felt the comprehension slide flush with the fear she carried.

They were dead.

It was something she hadn't seen since her wedding night, and it terrified her just as much, years later.

Tywin pulled his short sword from where it laid at his hip, the sound of steel kissing its way out of tooled leather was eaten by the thick walls; and instead of being tremendous and beautiful, the sound was ominous and greasy - like snake about to strike.

She watched the blade catch the flickering torch and lamp light for only a moment, until Tywin laid it along the length of the sour man's spine.

The tip rested against the base of his neck, and every breath her attacker inhaled caused the maliciously honed point to scrap and cut at the bulge of skin gathered at his nape; the noise of it was clear in the tiny room. The heavy guard laid at the top of the man's backside where he was bent over the horrible table; the exquisitely ornate gold lions on either side bit into his flesh where their open maws bared teeth and where the fur on the manes came to points.

The Great Lion left his steel where he arranged it, stepped back and started to pull on tight-fitting black leather gloves.

He answered the sour man then, with a voice from the Stranger himself.

"_Yes_."

Sansa watched the smile on the sour man's face falter at that one small word; it gave her a rush of satisfaction and a pang of dreadful anxiousness, equally.

Tywin had vision for nothing save the flesh in front of him. The walls of the room dimmed to a void, the people standing within blurred to insignificance. His mind retreated to blackness and he had to fight himself to want for information from the meat, not just fear and blood.

The meat hurt her, hurt _them_, and it would die for that action alone, but he needed to know who sent it - who wanted what was _his_, for they would suffer too, more so.

The lions pulse slowed to a calm as he reached for the blade left resting. He gripped it like a lover, an embrace tender and thoughtful; it was lifted to angle slightly, the top third of steel remained flat on the flesh - the point digging in just enough to give him a taste of ecstasy, a tiny pool of red and hiss of pain from the meat beneath it.

The reaction made Tywin blink in flutters, made him breathe deep the fear the flesh was sweating out; it made him grin.

With a gentle pivot of his wrist the lion brought his sword to its edge; earning him more fear, more pain and just a little more blood.

Sansa was taken back to a time and place of love, such an odd contrast to the room of imminent death that was her actuality; she could see her father sitting in the godswood, oiling Ice under the great weirwood; she could see him smiling as her small child-self sat before him.

_"Father, is a sword always sharp?" She asked as she looked toward the great sword that was surely the length of two of her._

Eddard Stark had looked at his daughter with eyes that pronounced good and adoration, with eyes Sansa never doubted in her childhood, in the North. When she was but merely a babe, her father's eyes spoke words of comfort and told stories of heroes.

He smiled at her with those eyes.

_"Not always. A blades' sharpness defines its purpose." He had started to wrap the massive sword in cloth, "Some edges are duller, for a chop," Sansa giggled when he brought his flattened hand down like an axe; demonstrating the action he was speaking of, "and some are sharp, for slicing."_

Her father didn't have a gesture for that action, but as Sansa watched Tywins sword sink into the shallow flesh near the spine of the sour man, using no more force than the weight of the steel itself and the direction her husband was pulling it, she suspected that _that_ was what he spoke of.

"Tell me who sent you, and you will meet your end quickly."

Tywin spoke the words without inflection, and they seemed to take a lifetime to reach the air; the time it took for him to drag his sword the length of the man's back.

The steel left a line of tiny crimson beads from the base of the man's neck to the top of his arse; the wound was nothing gruesome or flowing; nothing that would allow the man to die quickly.

"I've not a fuckin' thing for you, y' best kill me." The sour man was mouthing bravado, but his voice wavered at the end.

"Soon." was all the lion said, distracted and shallow.

As before, Tywin returned his sword to rest along the man's spine, but he rolled it to the opposite edge and drew a crimson line to the man's other arse cheek.

At the end of the bloody line, Tywin swayed slightly toward the man; the point of his blade carried his weight and dug into the ample flesh where it had come to a stop on the man's backside.

The resistance was only momentary before Lord Lannister felt the meat give way to his steel. He could hear a gritted scream intensify with every fraction he pushed into it. He leaned into the slow invasion until he met his goal - bone - midway in the span of the pelvis. It was the stop he wanted, and kept steady pressure on the hilt of his sword so the meat could not get used to the pain.

"Tell me."

With his words, Tywin gave a gentle twist to the embedded blade, feeling the tip dig and scrape further into its resistance and the flesh gaping where the turn held the wound open.

The red began to trickle, and with it was the emergence of power.

What was a man but the flow of his blood? One could be whole, and die all the same by way of a small nick, by an arrow, _or bolt_.

"_Who_ sent you?"

Lord Tywin reversed his twist, relieving the pressure in the man's backside.

"_No_..." the sour man all but hissed.

The lion took his cue, turning the blade in the other direction. He noticed the sheen of sweat appearing on the lower back displayed before him, and knew he had to move on if he was to push the dead man past his tolerance.

He removed the blade without ceremony, the yelp it produced was sweeter than any song.

Without preamble, Tywin placed the flat tip on the tailbone of the man and proceeded to drag the hefty point down the center of the man's arse; making its way, painfully, to the goal that was obscenely exposed in that position.

Tall tales and mummers farces paint torture as a villains diatribe; a pause to allow the hero to plan escape and defeat of the villain. The reality was that there was no introduction, no dialogue to accompany the violence, and even less recognition of who was indeed the hero.

Tywin plunged a thumbs length of steel in the most unmentionable part of the man, causing a piercing scream to be let loose from his lungs.

Sansa caught herself before her breathing became too shallow, before her nerves overtook her minds control to leave her standing, or even able to bear what she knew was coming, what was going to continue.

She had been witness to all forms of torture in Joffrey's court, even death, but this was personal. This man had schemed and killed just to see her savaged and killed herself; she had to know his motivation.

The fact that she _had_ to know was something her prior self would never even consider, let alone participate in; yet as she stood in the shadows watching a man suffer she couldn't help but feel proud of herself.

A grisly accomplishment.

Kevan caught her eye then, as the sour man writhed and wailed under the infliction of more steel biting and cutting its way through bowel; his eyes weren't the kindly green she had grown used to, they were hard like Tywins, but familiar, like when Robb would escort her through groups of men in the training yards of Winterfell.

_Protected by lions_, her mind scoffed.

Sansa didn't smile at him, as was her normal course, she simply gave a quick nod to let him know she fared well and watched him turn his attention back to his brother.

The sour man was sweating profusely, she could see; his face was set with his eyes screwed shut in pain and a continuous droning whimper emanating from behind his spittle flecked lips.

Sansa had always been proud of her height, it made her feel older when she was a girl, it gave her presence when she stood hand-on-arm with her husband. She was also, now, at an advantageous angle to see every sliver of steel disappearing into the bent body of the man before her.

She loathed her height then.

Tywin was barely halfway into the man when he gingerly opened his grip on the sword and tested its balance. The blade seemed likely to stay, so he let go completely and watched the man agonize.

The sour man screamed something desperate, like a wounded animal, as his lower legs twitched and lifted in a sad effort to relieve the horrendous pressure inside him.

Lord Tywin walked around the table until he was looking at the man and droned, "_Who_ sent you?"

Through whimpering noises and chattering teeth the sour man said one word, "_No_."

Her husband only nodded, then turned to resume his stance behind the man. Once in place, Tywin pulled the hilt of his sword viciously, and in an instant the blade had been completely removed.

The shriek that the action produced would haunt her, she knew; but more so it was the sound of blood and other fluids hitting stone floor, coupled with the stench that eventually hit her that made Sansa gag loudly.

She was trying to suck in fresh air but there was none in the room.

Through teary eyes she watched Tywin lay the blood and feces coated sword on the man's back again, and noticed the sour man had lost consciousness.

It was a reprieve for them both.

"Wake him." Tywin commanded his brother without looking at him, then walked to his wife and offered her his arm.

She had gained control of herself at that point, but accepted his proffered arm anyway. He lead her out of the room, into to the dark passage beyond.

With a flick of his fingers Tywin ordered the sentries to step away, then turned his attention to the stoic young woman before him.

"I will have you escorted back, my lady." it was kind, but it wasn't the husband she knew, this man was distracted and clearly making an effort to focus on her.

Her hand clasped his forearm a little tighter, "I will have _you_ escort me, my lord."

His brows pinched at her words and he spoke in a sarcastic tone that told her she neglected the obvious, "My time is rather occupied."

"As is mine." Sansa made the statement and watched the lion search her face for a frivolous want of approval.

There was nothing of the kind.

Sansa made the decision for herself, not for her husband, and not to have the pleasure of watching a man die; but for the closure her mind demanded in knowing she had, once again, survived.

That even with all the death of that day, there was life too.

His eyes drifted the length of her body, met hers again, then gave a curt nod before turning them both toward the small dark room.

As she left the side of her husband to resume her place in the shadow of the room, she could hear that the sour man had indeed woken, but barely. He was moaning in pain, and slipping back into darkness when Ser Kevan placed a small vial under his nose. Whatever it contained caused the man to snap open his eyes and groan louder.

Tywin watched for a few heartbeats; looking bored, he walked to one of the buckets on the floor, picked it up by the rope handle and dumped the white slushy contents over the sweaty shivering back of the man - and, in turn, the blade that remained where it had been left.

As soon as the partially melted snow hit the man, he wailed in shock and pain, pulling and struggling against the ropes that bound him in place.

Lord Tywin casually walked to the where the man's head was thumping into the table, pressed his knuckles into the wet and vomit near his mouth and growled, "Shall we continue?"

The ever-defiant man smiled is sour mouth at her husband and Sansa prepared herself to witness violence.

True to her estimation, she watched Tywins fisted right hand lift high and come down, his body twisting along with it, straight into grinning yellow teeth. She heard thumps and cracks as the lion swung out his rage, but could not discern what was face hitting wood, or teeth breaking loose, or what were facial bones cracking under heavy punches.

The man's face changed with each strike, his nose moved, his mouth went from yellow to split red, to gaps of black. His eyes went from alert to hazy delirium, and just as they were tipping into blank again, Tywin stopped, scooped up a handful of snow and wiped the blood and flecks of meat from the knuckles of his glove.

He had moved behind the man once more and, again, there was no preamble before he gripped his sword, shook most of the snow off, leaned back on his furthest heel, lined up and thrust forward savagely; burying half the steel in the most private part of _any _man.

"We'll start where we left off." it was almost smiled out.

Ser Kevan had hold of the man's hair and kept the vial in front of his face - whether it was doing anything was unknown as he was no longer breathing through his severely broken nose.

Sansa heard her husband repeat his question and heard Kevan calmly trying to convince the man to talk. It was opposing dynamics and Sansa could only imagine that it would be overwhelming regardless of circumstance.

But under it all, the screaming, the begging, the questions and coaxing, she could hear a tiny word.

"_Keera_."

It was faint, and said like a dream; Sansa had to focus on both syllables just to know it was a word being spoken.

_No, not a word, a name._ Her mind told her.

The sour man was chattering what teeth he had left, begging for death when his eyes were shiny, then muttering _Keera _over and over when his eyes went cloudy.

She realized he was dying. She also realized that Tywin had no intention of letting the man die quickly, whether he told him what he wanted to know or not. Her husband was existing for the fear pouring off and out of the body before him; it saddened her that she was not appalled.

Her feet worked on their own and she watched the gory scene get closer; Ser Kevan looked at her in question but backed away either out of station or intuition.

At that proximity, Sansa could see the fine quakes rippling under the skin of the man; spasms that intensified in waves for every sliver of honed blade that entered him. But he had quieted at her approach, the nattering had ceased and he was staring at her, blinking slowly; his eyes wavering in their focus.

"_Keera_?" it was so full of hope.

Sansa smiled an affirmation at the man and instantly felt a pang of guilt, but it was quickly eaten by the knowledge that he held information that mattered more to her than a delusion of identity.

She reached out to him, brushed her fingers over his sweaty, bloody brow; he responded by whimpering in his throat - then screeching in pain as Tywin fucked him with a merciless amount of steel.

She kept her eyes on him, kept petting his brow until he focused again.

Sansa smiled then, gently, motherly, and tucked a his loose hair behind his ear; her touch matched her smile and the sour man had no defense.

Rubbing her thumb at his temple, she spoke sweetly, "Who sent you?"

He was breathing large huffs, blinking at her; then he closed his eyes, lifted his head a tiny amount into her hand and smiled, broken and grotesque.

"The Quee-"

He was snuffed out in a painful jerk and gurgle; Tywin had plunged the entirety of the sword into the man before the word could be truly spoken.

It did not matter, the three people within that room heard.

They heard and they knew the implications; just as each one knew their duty.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Lord and Lady Lannister stepped through the doors of their apartments and Tywin immediately poured them wine; but as he handed his wife her cup, she let it drop to the floor and rushed to the basin at the wash station by the servants door and began retching.

Tywin rushed to her side, gripped her gently, yet firmly around the waist and rescued her hair from settling in the gathering pool of vomit.

He could feel each purging spasm course through her and adjusted his hand, taking it from her waist to lightly rub her back.

"You held yourself through all of _that_, and choose _now_ to truly be ill?" It came out as a reprimand, and quite honestly he meant it as one.

But she was shivering and quaking too hard in her fits of sickness and was not able to answer him; neither did Tywin press her.

He waited.

Comforting her, caring for her while she trembled and gagged; stroked her hair and back, fetched a cup of water and a cloth to wipe her mouth once he was confident she could stand unassisted.

He ran the back of his hand over her forehead, and while she was hot from her efforts, she was not sticky in sweat or shaking in fever.

Cupping her uncoloured cheek and tilting her face at him, he stared at her.

He continued to wait.

She was painfully shy, a maid once more, delicate and ignorant; and keeping a secret.

"I'm... with child, my lord." It was little more than a whisper.

For some reason she could not meet his eyes, like she had just told him something terrible and not that she was carrying his babe.

"I have suspected." his words were gentle, but said in his tone of perpetual suspicion.

She snapped her confused eyes to her husband then, asking him _How?_ without speaking a single word.

Tywin felt his countenance soften as he brushed a gentle hand along her jaw line, then let it drift down her neck, his fingers spread wide and stroked softly through their descent over her collar, down the side of her breast; it was where the journey ended, and she watched him cup its weight in his palm before squeezing the tiniest of amounts.

Sansa winced at the tender pressure and raised her eyes to find him already looking; expectant.

"You are changing. I noticed." his words were still kind, his suspicion was still prominent, "You smell different, you _taste_ different._ I noticed_."

She blushed hot and red at his words, at what he meant, and again couldn't keep his gaze.

His hand travelled a reverse path and caressed the untouched side of her jaw once more.

"Look at me, my lady." He waited until her wide eyes settled before he spoke again, "How long?"

Her breath quickened against her will, "Not yet four moons, my lord." she said it like an admission of guilt.

Tywin frowned, "Why would you keep this from me?" his voice was more concern than annoyance, "You need care, Sansa."

Her first inclination was to question why he would allow her to witness a man's torture and death, but stopped short of speaking her petulant annoyance when she remembered the way he looked at her, covered in waste and gore in the small room; how he looked at _all_ of her.

He knew then; more than that, _she _knew all along.

_...it is my choice to be here._

Her mind drifted to his question - _why?_ - and it stirred in her a deep, pitiful sadness; one that she had to get into grip before she could even try to speak.

He watched her eyes pool and gloss, and knew the answer before she uttered a sound.

"I wanted to be sure..." her voice cracked, but her tears remained unshed, "I didn't want it to be like last time."

The sincerity of her awful honesty transformed his frown to a grim line; he could feel her jaw working under his fingers.

Tywin brushed his thumb over the stressed and tensed muscles, but she pulled away. Pulled back completely, turned and walked to the window.

There was nothing to see outside; with no moon, it was black as pitch, and what parts of the paned glass that were not capped in frost only served to reflect the room behind her.

It wasn't the view she cared about; it was the cold without the wind. She could sometimes feel it call to her, the frost and ice, there was a familiar comfort in it; something she felt even more since she knew Tywin's seed had found purchase.

Sansa leaned on the stone block sill, tilting her face as close to the glass as she could without touching it. She watched the frost widen and melt to wet from the heat of her closeness. It was sorry and beautiful all at the same time; and in catching herself in the black mirror, she could not help but make the same comparison to her life.

A moment of melancholy in an existence she knew was better than most.

_It could have been worse_. She had heard that more than once, said by people observing her life from a position outside of it; ignorantly flicked off the tongue like it was advice that carried both weight and usefulness.

She watched in the cold black shine, her husband, her lion, walking to a position beside her.

They were side by side, but facing opposite directions; his face read like a book - he was about to command.

"You will leave for Casterly Rock on the morrow." his voice was soft, but as predicted, commanding all the same.

What Sansa could not control in her own life, she had a chance of protecting in the one she carried, and she would do so with every drop of blood that made her.

"No, I won't." it was spoken kindly to his reflection.

His reflection spoke back, angry and tired.

"Yes you will, Sansa. I gave you limited check to build yourself into a lion of strength, but you forget your _place_, my lady; you _will _obey me."

She marveled in the glass a while, at the detail of his whiskers swaying in movement as his jaw flexed beneath them.

"Will you be accompanying me, my lord?"

"Of course not." the sneer in his voice was not unexpected.

However, in light of the events that day, she could not tell if he was being willfully obtuse or if he was as afraid as she was.

It was _her_ fear that ignited her own snarled voice, "Where will I be safer?" she looked down and away from the glass, his hand hanging strong and slack at his side was her peripheral focus, "Where will you have total control of those who come in contact with your unborn child; _here _with you, or in the _Westerlands_?"

They were close enough that Sansa could hear his teeth stutter in their grind against one another.

It did not stop her.

_With every drop of blood that made her._

"She is the _Queen_, Tywin. Distance is _not _an obstacle."

In the position they stood they could not make eye contact; the lion, instead, leaned toward his wife's ear and presented a menacing growl.

"You think to talk to me like I am some sort of _fucking lackwit_?"

Sansa straightened again and went back to observing through the reflection world, the one outside, made of night and cold but somehow warmer.

"No, Tywin, you are every bit the monster you have _ever _been." It was bitter and calculated.

"Is that it then? I am a_ monster_?" He scoffed caustically, aiming to get a rise out of her.

Taking a deep breath, she let her posture relax. There was no fight, he could keep his bait; if he truly wanted her gone she would be, and she would be a dutiful wife to her husband and heed his decision.

"No, not entirely; just as I am not entirely what you have made me," she said it softly, confidently, not affording him a look to go with it, "Tell me, when I confirmed I was with child, were you happy because we created life together, or because if I bore you a son, he would provide you greater gains?"

He didn't answer; she didn't expect him to. She also knew, without having to see him, that he was clenching his jaw again.

Sansa continued, in her soft natural tone, "Time has gifted us many things, my lord; changing who we truly are is _not_ one of them."

He was unbearably quiet, but did not move from the his place beside her.

On one side, there was an almost startling heat cascading off her husband, and _that _was mingling with the bitter cold of the window on the other side; each wave met in the middle, met at the center of _her_, creating a strange, cradling warmth.

Without sparing a glance, Sansa reached out the hand closest to Tywin and swept her knuckles down the length of his arm, until her forefinger was brushing over his smallest.

She hooked her finger around his and held on, her focus still somewhere outside, within the mirror-life ticking by in the large window.

He held her finger gently, as was his way in these times, then squeezed a tiny amount.

"_Good_." he whispered thickly, before letting go and leaving her to her contemplation.

The Great Lion would keep his family close.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It was six days after the death of the sour man that Sansa felt able to bare herself to her husband; allowing him to see the marks that had been left; the ones hidden under clothes, the ones that caused her wake in a fright until she was wrapped up in warmth and strength and lulled back into slumber.

The marks along her jaw had darkened into almost black, her eye on that side carried some of the colour as well, but it was the finger shaped bruising around her throat that made Tywin simmer in his ire and wish to make the already dead man suffer and die repeatedly.

His wife wasn't afraid to let people see what she had lived through, it was something of an open taunt. She didn't powder herself or wear her hair completely loose to cover her wounds, like other women might, _some men as well_.

She had steel under her porcelain and he admitted to himself that that only made her more desirable in his eyes.

He had been in front of the fire, on the sofa in the sitting room when she padded her slippered feet around to stand in front of him. She was draped in only an oversized crimson robe.

Her face was serious, but kind, her hair was unbound.

His heart sped.

She seemed to like wearing his robe, and he was well past the want or care to chastise her for donning it anymore. He could smell her in it, faintly, every morning when he wore it himself; and he would be no more than a liar if he tried to convince himself that he did not enjoy having her linger on him.

The thought made his lust sink and pool at his groin; but that was instantly extinguished when she shed the garment.

He did not anticipate... He was not _prepared_...

His wife did not speak, and Tywin was thankful. He would not have been able to even acknowledge conversation, let own participate in it.

The bruising was something he expected, what he didn't expect was that they would be in the clearly identifiable shape of the dead man's _gods-damned hands_.

They were _everywhere _on her and it felt like they had suddenly become functional again and made to choke the staring lion.

Purple-black hands painted her breasts, her arms, her ribs, her hips, and _gods_, her inner thighs.

The finger marks on her throat were a prelude to everything else.

Pycelle told him she had been thoroughly welted, but failed to mention she lived with her attackers hands still on her.

Sansa stood motionless, with just the steady lift and dip of her breasts as she breathed and watched him. He raised his hands to her, to her ribs, and placed his fingers with a feather's touch over the bruising there.

The marks were thicker than the hands that covered them; his fingers were long, as were his palms, and they did not match the large blunted, cruel, prints on his wife.

Tywin found himself swallowing his boiling fury, he felt his back cool in the sweat that broke out; but what slashed and bled him was the truth that greeted his vision when he swept his eyes over the curve of her belly, not yet a bump, to the wiry auburn curls at her juncture.

Through the fair red, against the pale of her skin, were long jagged scratches. He looked closer and keened an almost silent noise when he saw they were on her mound as well as on her thighs.

He curled his shoulders as his chest ached and he fought his vicious want to kill. Instead he placed his lips over a few of the many scrapes emerging from her thatch and kissed her. Then, moving one of his hands, he brushed his fingertips over the lines of scabs; again barely caressing her, as though his touch might gouge her deeper.

Tywin was so wrapped up in his own reaction to her harm that he did not notice his wife's change in demeanor.

His contact was gentle, _too _gentle; it was as if Tywin thought she was beyond damaged and fragile. A dried flower whose petals would turned to dust if handled any more than hardly.

Her husband pitied her, again.

She loathed him for it, again.

If she was causing him to consider her that way, it would be something she would put an end to.

When he peered up at his wife, she was wearing a look of anger; it not only served to confuse him, but it washed him in embarrassment - it was so foreign, and so frustrating, that he became angry as well.

"I am _not_ broken." it was not nettled, nor was it sad; it was leaning terribly close to admonishment.

"This, I know." his was a growl, unmistakably feral.

"Then why are you wallowing in marks that will fade?" this time there was no question, Sansa was chastising the lion.

How ridiculous, his young wife, naked save dainty slippers, upbraiding the Hand of the King as though he were a chambermaid arranging gowns in the wrong order.

"I _am not_." he warned.

"You _are_." she did not raise her voice, she did not have to; when her eyes reflected disappointment she all but ruined him, if only for a heartbeat, and she knew this, "He took _nothing_ from me; yet you act like you have been robbed."

Sansa watched her husband deepen both his scowl and his breathing, his eyes became sharp and absolutely focused.

On her.

"I am _yours_, my lord, perhaps you'd care to remember that."

He stood bolt upright in a fluid motion, looked down at his wife; the proud beautiful creature in front of him; indestructible, and _his_.

_...remember that._

It was in no more than a blink that Tywin snatched her around the waist and pulled her flush against him, hard. She bleated in surprise but did not waver in her seriousness; he would have smirked at her, but his mind was still influenced by his ego and could not enjoy the moment.

He knew her breasts were sensitive, but it did not stop her from rocking and bucking into his body - as much as his one-armed grip would allow.

Instead she reached up and dug her fingers into the fabric at his doublet, attempting to pull his face downward; he let her, mashing their mouths together as a result. It was almost too hard, too violent, however Sansa was unrelenting. She clawed her way up his neck and around to his nape, digging her nails into the skin under his collar and up the back of his head.

She was marking _him_.

He would walk into council with her passion on him, on display. He pulled her into him harder and rolled his hips at the thought. The friction was sweet, his cock pressed in his breeches, against her. His hands felt the soft pale skin his mind was begging the rest of him to touch.

His need was prominent. His need was _her_.

_...remember that._

Tywin crouched down and moved his mouth down Sansa's neck, over the bruises there; she grunted at the pressure on them but stayed rooted, encouraging his own marks - which he sucked and nipped into place.

Whatever mistreatment that was illustrated on her body was forgotten; it had no place between them, or with them individually. They each were stronger than one man's failure, and together they were surely invincible.

His mouth moved further down her neck, over her collarbone to her tender breasts. Tywin was gentle with her there, using soft kisses and being careful to not even scrape his side whiskers on her skin.

Sansa brought one of her hands to cradle the back of his head and the other she used to stroke the side of his face that was tilted upward. He closed his eyes at her touch, but did not stop his light, open-mouthed kisses around the side and under her teat.

Tywin gave one last kiss to her breast before his hands met her hips, and he moved her like a dance, until they had traded positions. With slight pressure he wordlessly guided her to sit where he had been, and began removing his clothing.

Lifting his tunic over his head, his body shook in arousal at the feel of his wife palming his cock through his breeches. He was stuck in a laughable pose, mid-strip, groaning with every stroke and tug Sansa laid on him. He could not see her but he knew what she was doing; unlacing him, freeing his semi-hardness.

His hands were over his head, his tunic still covered his arms and face, but Sansa was transfixed on the low-set breathing in his abdomen; how his lower back curved toward her when she paid his manhood attention, how the muscles in his stomach went taut then relaxed with each pull and unlace her fingers managed.

Her husband's body was a myth to his age, and she took pleasure in that lie.

With his cock freed, she held the stiffening flesh in her palm; did not stroke it, did not grasp it.

Tywin regained function of his mind and finished removing his tunic. Looking down the slant of his body, he was greeted with a sight he would never tire of.

Sansa, moved her face close to his groin and pressed her lips into the curls at the base of his cock, then smiled as she watched it lengthen and harden further. She felt his hand brush through her hair then fist gently; the air shivered out of him when she placed her slightly opened lips against the midpoint of his shaft and kissed that part of him too.

She repeated her affection twice more before she heard him speak.

"No, enough." his voice was just a whisper, but his hands possessed every confidence as they pushed her back with care.

He stripped his boots and breeches off, slowly, and watched her watch him. Watched her brow lift in silent invitation.

He kneeled in front of her, sitting on his heels, her knees caressing each side of him; he used a hand on the side of her face, bending her forward slightly, pulling her to him and kissed her waiting mouth.

This time slowly, deeply, without an element of war.

Her fingers dug into the flesh at his ribs; it made his cock twitch and his tongue want more of hers.

Using the guide of his body, as he sat up taller on his knees, she descended to her back; he leaned and lead until she was mostly laying flat on the seat of the sofa, until he fit against her like gears working - teeth in their path of contact.

Sansa legs loosely wrapped into their place around his waist, her heels resting above his arse waiting to encourage and guide him.

Tywin created space between their bodies, his face still hovering above hers, and slid his hand to her mound. Even in the light touch at the top of her slit he felt her slick readiness, and both moaned when he continued his path over her sensitive bump to the heat at her core.

She blinked wildly when he pressed one finger into her, and shut her eyes altogether when he added another and started fucking her at a pace he knew she liked.

The wet noise of his fingers working inside her and the dry airy babbling spilling from her lips made him burn; it added fuel and ignited him from the inside.

He sat up higher, created a larger gap, removed his fingers from her and opened his mouth in an attempt to communicate.

"Put your h-," the word, and all thought, were lost in the air he pushed out.

Sansa knew exactly what she wanted, what _he _wanted, and made the reach to grasp his manhood.

One delicate hand wrapped around the base of him, pulling back the skin, unsheathing him as she went; the other hand stroking up over the tip. He was dry there still, the skin was silken on her fingers, allowing her hand a steady back and forth motion; touching Tywin the way that made him pant.

_The way he had taught her_.

He could not stop himself from fucking into her fists; grinding himself into her center with every push forward. He shut his eyes and let the sensation cascade over him.

He felt her hands adjust his cock to line with her entrance; he opened his eyes to her then and, as her hands moved away, he took her in one solid thrust.

There was no tease, no play to achieve his depth within her; he claimed her with that one push forward, they both knew it.

Sansa arched her back and gasped a large breath when Tywin sank into her.

His hands curled around her hips and held her in place as he set his rhythm, his fingers clamped their mark on her skin, ensured with every forceful shove his hips pressed forth.

She only felt _him_, on her, within her, and her world no longer existed outside the two of them.

One of his hands ventured from her hip to her backside; he gripped a handful of flesh, again as a claim, as a physical testament to emotional ownership.

In that moment, _for _and _of _whom could be debated.

At first she wriggled in the excitement of his new gain, but it quickly switched to discomfort - not of his grasp, but in the flood of memory regarding whose hand was there previously.

Her mind started to panic.

_The sour man_.

He was touching her there with the barest of fingertips.

She stiffened but didn't speak a word to tell him to stop; it was her eyes though, her eyes spoke clearly that his wife was reliving an event that was horrible.

Tywin draped himself over, and stilled his movement inside her; his hand stayed in place but stopped its tender stroking, he nudged his face and mouth into her hair and beside her ear and brought his other hand up from her hip to cradle her crown.

He spoke low and calm, the same way he had approached her a handful of days prior to gather equally important information.

"Do you want me to stop?" the question was not a provocation.

He could hear Sansa swallow hard, could feel her nails dig into his flanks; and just as quick and discernible, he felt her body relax and heard her breathing deepen again.

"No." it was said softly, no fear in it.

She felt her husband start to lightly, gently, sweep his fingers over her hurt and terror; he did not move otherwise.

"You are _mine_." his words were there between them, half a murmur, half a growl, but they weren't necessarily a proclamation.

_...remember that._

Tywin pulled almost all of his length out of her and his breath caught at the guttural moan she sang in his ear; he let his fingers drift from her arse to the wet that was leaking to meet them in the cleft connecting her most intimate parts.

He pushed his cock into her once more, slow and firm and was rewarded with a sound from Sansa that rivaled the one she made due to its removal.

His fingers retreated, using the slickness he had pulled from where they were joined to alleviate any abrasion as he resumed brushing them against her tiny muscle.

Sitting up taller, Tywin looked down at his wife, fucking and touching her with a slow and steady rhythm; watching her face, the rose of her cheeks blooming in their lust, her eyes in a half lidded stare, hazing more with every pet and thrust.

His eyes followed Sansa's hand as it made the familiar journey to pleasure herself and his body spiked in arousal, causing him to grind into her core and push her fingers onto her nub with a heavier pressure. He wasn't thrusting, more churning cumbered and his wife met every motion with a staggered moan.

His need for friction made itself known again, which transposed to hips rolling over and over.

Sansa's eyes were fluttering in response to the internal heat that was consuming her, the heat that was coiling tight where her body met her husband's. Every time she was filled the coil constricted, and as she was on the verge of breaking her limit she felt the tip of Tywins finger slip into a place that was forbidden.

It did not hurt, but there was a pressure, a resistance that lent itself to the pleasure that had been building; she heard the loud mewl of noise, purely wanton and unbidden, before she knew it was ringing from her own mouth.

She was beautiful, his lady, his wife, _his_; the sight of her, the feel of her shivering inner clench, collectively forced his own resolve to fail outright.

His finger slipped out as he fucked into her hard, his hips adding their own purple evidence to her inner thighs, watching her ride out her peak.

When she focused again, Tywin was near gasping.

Sansa was still heaving breaths but, for him, everything stopped when she smiled; at him, through him. He knew nothing in that instant except that she was his and, in that fraction of life, he was truly hers.

His body slowed and shuddered as he reached his own peak, spilling rope after rope of seed.

His eyes shut as his release crashed into him, he felt like he was losing control until strong, elegant hands anchored him; they clamped around the back of his neck and guided his head down to where his lips met hers, soft and swollen and waiting.

She kissed him like the fool he was; kissed him until his cock was soft and he was still fucking into her for every last instance of pleasure; until she pushed him out of her heat and he could feel their efforts run a hot river down her cleft to his fingers.

Until _he_ was purring and _she_ was humming in contentment.

Sweat dripped between their bellies, he felt it growing cold on his lower back, but he didn't want to move; to break the trance he found himself in. Instead, he nuzzled into her neck and hugged himself into his wife to keep her, and the child, as warm as possible.

His child. _Their_ child.

Not equal parts lion, not this time, a lion and a direwolf; just as deadly, just as fierce, unnerving all the same.

He had planned the first, he knew what to expect, Lannister through and through. Now there was Stark, northern blood...

He inwardly chided his own stupidity - the babe was _his_, just as she was _his_, and that was all that mattered.

..._he was truly hers_.

.

..

...

* * *

**Authors Notes:**

As I get closer to the end of the series, I am finding that the chapters are becoming more and more involved (read: they're getting kinda lengthy).

I have tried to keep to an even schedule, but with the rigors of life and work I am finding it hard to be consistent. So I will, all at the same time, apologize for the sporadic posting and thank you for your patience.

As always, your continued support and enjoyment of this work is amazing and appreciated.

Regards,

Relic


	6. Wonder pt I

The betrothal and wedding of King Tommen and Lady Margaery was a prospect that had been drawn out and negotiated through moons upon moons of winter. It was not until his wife was made a target that Lord Tywin acted to seal an association with Highgarden.

Of course, the marriage of the King to the Tyrell girl was advantageous for the Reach, but in order to further solidify loyalty to House Lannister, the betrothal and wedding of Lord Randyll Tarly and Queen Cersei was announced at the same time.

Lord Tarly's wife had become a victim of winter; of the cold that permeated even the most hearty. She was not the only highborn to perish in such a way, but she was the only one that served as a convenient favour to Tywin Lannister.

Tarly was undeniably loyal to his liege, fiercely so… some would even say he was also the more dangerous of the two; a point to which Tywin had never paid much heed. Lord Randyll was a skilled soldier, to be sure; then what else could be said of a man whose only notable accomplishments were battles that were nothing if not winnable.

But Lord Tywin needed the regimented soldier. He needed the man that could lead a vanguard with cold efficiency, absolute control, and yet held an element of recklessness. Lord Tarly would present enough restriction to keep Cersei in line, but offer enough careless leeway to allow her the feeling of advantage she needed to remain focused and relatively effective in serving her House.

Regardless of her folly, her father would give her a purpose; whether she would make anything of it, remained to be seen.

The greater purpose; however, the greater need, no matter how long he avoided it in his mind was that the betrothal and marriage would serve to occupy her in a place outside King's Landing; it would remove _her _from influence at the side of the King and the power her station and name possessed in a place she had come to rule.

The House was minor, a lesser vassal, and far below that which Tywin would normally even blink at. But there _was_ gain to be had and for the safety of any potential heir to the West Sansa carried, he was willing to make that sacrifice. And to make it quickly.

His daughter fought and wailed and seethed as he knew she would, but her fire dimmed rather quickly when her lord father repaid her attitude in kind.

As far as Cersei was concerned, her ruse, her assassin, died with his secrets - and she would continue to believe in her own cleverness. The three that knew differently also knew the terrible repercussions toward House Lannister that would occur should the truth ever surface.

It was blatant between Lord and Lady Lannister, both the silence in regards to the attempt on Sansa's life, and the reasons for that silence.

One of those reasons grew daily inside its mother.

The tall length of Sansa's body hid the advancement of her pregnancy for quite awhile. It was only within the sixth moon that her belly started to look tellingly heavy with child.

Some women carried babes as no more than a burden, a tedious duty to the man they married, and the House they married into; while some, like his wife, wore this particularly extraordinary femininity like a declaration. It was a unknown strength until such a time as they conceived.

Lord Tywin would catch himself staring. Not that that was anything new by way of his wife, however, instead of carefully marveling at her charm and beauty, he found himself carelessly seeing a life ahead of them. A child born to them. A legacy secured with them.

A foolish act, he knew the danger of hope and promise; but as he found his mind journeying more as the moons slipped by he warily, begrudgingly resigned himself to being a buggering dolt.

She stood next to her husband as the feast honouring the marriage of Lord Tarly and the Queen Regent wound down to entertainment and dancing. It was striking just how much she was enjoying herself; King Tommen's wedding a fortnight prior seemed to quash the dark negativity surrounding these particular events for her and allowed her to approach this next one with an element of anticipation.

It did not matter _who _was being wed, it mattered that it was outside her normal routine and something that brought her back to what made her happy in her childhood; pageantry and pretty things. Perhaps it was the fact that she was carrying a child herself that made her think that way - it didn't much matter; she found she could wear a true smile and could read and bask in the happiness others openly displayed toward her.

Queen Margaery most of all.

Her friend had taken to spending more and more of her days within arm's length, and when King Tommen would join them, kittens and all, Sansa couldn't turn a blind eye to the parallels her friend was experiencing.

"_I have become a mother, without the marks to show for it_," she had laughed. And it was true; while Tommen was her husband, Margaery had replaced Sansa as the boy's surrogate mother.

Those were thoughts Sansa approached with caution; she did genuinely care for the little king and knew only too well the damage one can incur in being a pawn. But as they spent time together, the three of them, she could discern that the Tyrells held their interest in Tommen in high enough regard that their protection extended, fiercely, to the child-king.

Whether their intent was something nefarious underneath would only be brought about if ever circumstances changed; and while the likelihood of that happening was little to none, Sansa was not so naive to dismiss the possibility altogether.

Life as a Lannister seemed, at times, no more than a series of contingency plans.

Sansa felt Tywin move away from her side as he continued his in-depth conversations regarding securing stores to extend and resupply those in most need across the seven kingdoms.

Her husband had told her that as much as conflict invites reason to callously withdraw support from small folk as a method of warfare, that the aftermath also brought opportunity. One such was ensuring stores enough for keeps and lords alike. That it was the wiser measure in the throes of a desperate winter to provide supply when and where it was most needed. He emphasized that hardship lingered in memory, but acts of kindness in the time of hardship plant deeper and carry through to spring, when loyalty from able, productive, bodies would be demanded once more.

In her mind, though it was a stretch, she felt that the spirit of Lord Tywin's _generosity_ was very much in line with that of her father's rule.

"_How very _Northern _of you, my lord,_" she had teased the evening prior, half expecting an angry retort; Tywin only raised his brows and barked a light scoff at her.

Deep in thought amidst the celebration, Sansa did not notice her husband slip further away into the crowd, only to be replaced by another set of vivid green eyes - these set in a face of golden beauty.

But when the beauty spoke, the delicate façade was cracked, and a concealed ugliness exposed.

"Finally," Queen Cersei always had the ability to sling hate and judgment with only a few syllables.

Sansa looked to the bride, blinking her attempt to focus, trying to decipher that one sneered word.

"Your Grace?" she inquired, genuine and unafraid.

Lady Sansa had long come to terms with Cersei's unapologetic disdain, it was something she had been fully aware of the night Blackwater burned; it was something she, as she reflected now on her time as a ward, had been blind to when she was initially betrothed to Joffrey.

And for every sliver of her that wanted to strike with words and actions against the woman that tried to have her removed from the world, she was sated in the larger gain - the one only obtained with patience and forward thought.

_Family_.

She was lead back to the conversation at hand by bitterness and vitriol.

"You've finally proven your worth," Cersei eyed the obvious round of Sansa's belly and drawled, "When my father married the North, I highly doubt he anticipated you would be as barren."

Sansa took a moment to consider the former Queen and had to, again, secure the instinct to lash out in erstwhile protection of herself and her child. Her mind instead flashed the reaffirmation of duty to _her_ family.

Once a lady Sansa so wanted to emulate, so wanted to please, she found herself pitying the obviously flawed woman in front of her. She felt as though Cersei's shortcomings were very much like those of Gregor Clegane. However, the toy knight causing unstable malevolence in the former was actually her own father and to a certain degree even _he_ was not the cause of her loathing.

Some people, much like Gregor Clegane, much like Joffrey Baratheon, much like Cersei Lannister, were simply born with a cruel blackness in them.

Her hand instinctively rested on the swell of her babe, and she smiled - modest and natural.

"It was my choice, Your Grace."

Cersei curled her lip and balked, "Your _choice_? Your choice to _what_? Share my fathers bed for... _sport_?" she spit the last word in such a way it fell into the air as salt would a wound.

The offensive statement made Sansa blush. Her relationship, especially anything intimate, was of no concern to _anyone_, least of all the daughter of her husband.

It was with a flood of embarrassment that Sansa suddenly felt the maiden that she was under the harsh control of this same woman and her son; her words were meant to be confident but they came out breathy and unsure.

"I- Lord Tywin wanted..."

It was all Cersei needed to wedge a foothold for her verbal brutality.

"Are you sure it's his? I hear you've taken to entertaining sellswords for _sport_ as well," the smile Cersei produced painted her for exactly what she was: knowing.

Sansa lost whatever hesitations she felt, but would not allow her frustration to lead her.

_Anger is the first sign of defeat._

"I'm sure Lord Tarly will afford you the same courtesy, Your Grace," she smiled softly, her voice ever-polite.

And just as she anticipated, Cersei worked her face into a look of exaggerated confusion.

Sansa continued, charming and engaged, "Now that his need for an heir has become a priority," she had only read the missive that morning announcing Lord Randyll's son had succumbed to the same sickness that took his mother, "Surely you won't be expected to simply _bleed and breed_, like every wife before you."

Without much thought and with her face schooled to a look that was practiced and courteous, Sansa reached out and patted the Queen, _her daughter_, on the hand. A gesture that had been reversed the morning of her own wedding and given with about the same amount of empathy.

At the same time, the stern-faced groom stepped to the side to his bride and asked, using no more than a suspicious glance, the nature of their conversation.

The words were out of her mouth before Sansa could even consider them.

"Will there be a bedding, my lord?" her demeanour switched to one more representing a maid of ten.

Lord Tywin arrived just in time to observe his wife's baffling behaviour. He would never imagine Sansa slipping into the guise of frivolous girl, but the question clearly exacted the reaction she wanted, as Cersei bristled in a palpable fury.

Even the most flippant of words were a dangerous game, one that Sansa clearly did not think through.

As he returned fully to her side, Tywin gently flexed his fingertips into the lower back of his abruptly saccharine wife; his daughter, in the same instant, flashed her angry green eyes first at Sansa then to him.

The Queen's look clearly stated she was appalled and offended at the mere suggestion of such a thing.

Tywin drifted his inquiring gaze to the lord in question, who seemed to have paid the idea little thought, and opted to take control and make the decision for him.

"You have suffered more than enough this winter, my lord - your men by proxy," he flicked his stony eyes to his daughter then back to Lord Tarly, "I'm sure they would benefit from a tradition of this nature," nodding at his daughter, he continued, "It is nothing that hasn't been partaken in before, and what better way to usher in a favourable notion of their new lady."

Sansa wore a smile and posture that suggested her head was filled with air - exactly what she needed to portray when Lord Tarly scrutinized the Hand's normally astute wife to determine if her suggestion had been a jape at his expense.

She placed a hand over her belly and smiled all the wider for him.

When Lord Randyll answered, he did so to Tywin. His use and tolerance for women outside the duty and function of marriage was well known; his use and tolerance for dreamy girls speaking of frivolous behaviour was even less; but his men were sacred to him, and Sansa should have recognized and utilized that angle from the outset.

_Bloody, bloody fool_.

"Yes Lord Tywin, I'm sure they'll appreciate the gesture," the Commander's voice was much like untempered steel, strong with an element of brittle. The latter was a mystery and had nothing to do with confidence or weakness and everything to do with unpredictability.

Lord Tarly extended his arm then, his expression remaining stern and unimpressed, and waited for his new wife to accept it.

Sansa watched a flash of anger exchange between father and daughter, a momentary widening of the eyes, nothing more. Violence exacted by way of subtly; the victor was clear when Cersei wasted no time in resting her hand on the arm of her new husband before being lead away.

They were out of earshot when Tywin removed his hand from her back and partially turned to her.

"I know _why _Sansa, but you were careless," his voice was low and agitated, the hand nearest her front came up and gently cupped the round of their babe, "Handle yourself accordingly or find the flexibility in your lifestyle restricted, if not removed outright; understand?"

Her jaw clenched; she _despised _being treated like that. She fumed for a moment at the concept of carrying his child and having him see her as one as well - but her actions were just that, childish.

_Bloody, bloody fool_.

Sansa took a deep breath, dissipating her annoyance, "Apologies, my lord."

Her husband turned again to look at her fully; his eyes were angry but softened somewhat when she brushed her fingers over his hand still laid on her belly.

"I'm sorry," she reiterated in a tiny voice as she lowered her eyes to the brightly jeweled broach anchoring the wide crimson sash he wore over his doublet; the impact of her actions becoming accentuated amid them.

For the amount of anger she had seen in the eyes of Lord Tywin, his voice was toned with nothing of it, "Look at me."

Sansa complied and was humbled in that his eyes truly matched his inflection; it made her foolishness seem even more petty and brash.

He was worried.

They were far enough to the outskirts of the ballroom that Sansa allowed her mask to fade slightly and let her features tell her husband what words could not justify; that she knew she endangered them all for no more reason than self satisfaction, and her conscience was suffering for it.

He leaned into her as though to speak closely, but instead of words he kissed her; softly, purposefully. It was not so quick that it meant nothing, but he did not linger either.

She watched seriousness resurface in his countenance as he stood to full height again, but gone was the irritation; her own courtesy slid back into place, her husband waiting until she was adjusted and ready before taking his place at her side, gently gripping her hand and slipping it into its own place on his arm.

Theirs was a puzzle whose pieces fit, physical and otherwise, so flush and absolute that no room was afforded between them; but instead of letting the build of them become uncompromising, they had, sometimes unknowingly, developed new pieces and refashioned the puzzle as they went.

Sansa stood beside her lion as he moved them once again amongst the crowd, casting the immaculate demeanour she had been lauded for since she was a babe, flicking her eyes around them and turning her head in order to observe more of the room.

She noticed eyes watching her.

Not looking directly, and taking advantage of Tywin stopping to address one lord or another, Sansa needed no more than her periphery to distinguish Cersei sitting at the high table, glaring.

She could not help it, she _had _to; Sansa looked at the woman full on.

Viewing Cersei in that moment was like trying to read a single page that had a hundred stories on it - all overlapping: hate, fury, confusion, and obvious sadness, each piled up and fighting for position.

It was then she considered the sitting height of the queen, instantly acknowledging that Tywin's show of affection was not only visible to his daughter, but angled in such a way that there would be no question as to who initiated the intimacy.

Sansa did not smile at the Queen or offer anything other than impassiveness as she watched the older woman crack and crumble with an eerie stoic grace; neither wanting to help nor hinder the avalanche of hurt consuming the golden lioness.

Sansa's mind shifted the images and considerations regarding what she was witnessing, until she landed soundly on the conclusion: there was nothing more devastating to a daughter than watching her father choose the girl he married for gain over the child he sired with the woman he loved.

She looked toward Tywin then, struggling with her mind's want to deduce whether his actions were truly _that _maliciously calculated; and although she was confident in the reasoning that such a blow was purely coincidental, her heart radiated an ache anyway.

Sansa had to focus on their unborn child, not daring to look at Cersei again - the distraction enough to avoid getting swallowed up in an avalanche of her own.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Lord Tywin had never been a man to rest on his laurels or even remotely ease at the pass of adversity. That was why, when Cersei had finally journeyed to Horn Hill with her husband, he did not budge in his staunch refusal of his wife's request to reduce her guard detail.

He had assigned four Lannister men of the oldest Houses to his wife; they were loyal, trusted not only to die for her but they also had enough field experience to ensure they would not become distracted by passing cunt.

"Even by half, my lord," she wasn't begging, she was laying out her reasoning as best she could to a man who obviously did not want to hear it, "Two would hardly bring the attention that four does."

They had settled at their desk, it wasn't late in the evening but Sansa would begin to feel her wakefulness and usefulness sap before long and she wanted this addressed while she was alert.

"Let them take their look," he was making an effort to keep his ire in check, "I care nothing of your want to have your gowns' viewed unobstructed."

Her lips thinned and her jaw flexed.

"Why do you feel it necessary to punish me?" it was an anger she felt no control of, these bouts had only become prominent since she had been with child. It was like her careful patience was refusing its usual role and was replaced by irrationality which only agitated her more as it was of no assistance in helping to accomplish her goal.

"It's not about _punishment_, you thick-headed child," he had leaned into her, but was not seething or throwing his words in an effort to hurt.

Sansa found the contrast perplexing, then focused sharply as he continued.

"You are an asset carrying _my_ asset. I'll have you locked away in a tower if I so choose."

The reference to her aunt was insensitive, but the point of caring was well passed. He cocked his head toward her for only for a heartbeat before turning back to the correspondence he was reviewing; his wife looked furious, but her own words belied her features.

Suddenly her concern over the number of guards was nowhere to be found and she did not know whether to lay blame at the feet of her seemingly ever-fickle mind or somewhere deeper.

"Will you leave me there to perish as well, my lord?" she should have been petulant and venomous, but was instead sad and distant.

His frustration washed out, but his pride was impossible to sidestep, "Cease _questioning _me Sansa," he flicked an intense glare at her, "lest you care to tempt your luck."

She opened her mouth as if to speak - but instead coughed out the air she inhaled for her words, widened her eyes at her husband, and placed both her hands on her belly.

Tywin was standing immediately.

"Are you well?" his voice was calm but he did not give her a chance to answer, "Sansa, are you in pain?"

She blinked rapidly and grabbed his sleeve with one of her hands - the other remaining on the babe.

"I'm well," was all she said.

The hand on his sleeve moved to his wrist and tugged lightly. This was part of Sansa's communication when they were alone - touches, tugs, pulls, and pushes. Each signifying different requests, thoughts and feelings, that changed in different scenarios; it was a silent language Tywin could appreciate and, like his wife in regards to his levels of seriousness, he had become fluent.

He gave her command of his hand and watched as she lowered it to lay beside hers on the swell under her breasts.

He knew what was coming.

Sitting down again, keeping his hand in the place his wife set it, Tywin closed his eyes and deeply lowered his head.

She thought it odd that he would not look at her and for a moment considered that _he _may not be well himself, until the hand on her started to stroke in tiny circles; she smiled down at the motion and understood that while everything that was happening to her was new in _her _life, it was not in his.

Sansa hiccupped at the movement inside her, so strange, the twisting thumping thing; but his hand remained constant - rubbing and warm. When she looked to him, his head was still dipped low, she could not see his face, but she could see how his shoulders relaxed and his side whiskers swayed, how his chest moved in catches and quick intakes with every wave, and she smiled at the small growling huffs he would emit for every bump and tumble under his palm.

She let him be.

He looked at his wife when she made a surprised sound; the babe had shifted in what felt like an internal melee.

Looking at him wide-eyed in the same manner as before, she was smiling just as broad now, her voice full of wonder, "I- there hasn't been so much... dancing before, my lord." she looked questioningly to where Tywin's hand rested.

Tywin's mouth twitched at her amazement, but dropped to a grimace as he felt himself acknowledge his ignorance.

When his wife looked at him again, her own countenance floundered from question to hesitation to a polished version of pleasant - worn strictly for his benefit, making his inner chastisement that much more prominent.

His lady wife had no idea what was happening to her, aside from what was discussed with the maester. She had no other women in her life to relate to in this time, to talk to about such things - not like Joanna did.

Queen Margaery was yet a maiden; Cersei was never an option... Genna perhaps, she could be a suitable companion. Well older, but his wife never had issue with relating to anyone...

He was getting lost in his thoughts and his wife was watching him disappear.

"Did your mother ever talk to you about such things?"

The pain that gathered in her eyes stuck him even though it was expected. He had asked the question gently, but there was no way to remove the hurt of its context.

Sansa dropped her gaze, shook her head slightly and spoke softly, "No," she looked up then and to his surprise she was smiling, small and sincere, "I think she had always assumed we would be together when I was..." glancing down once again she rubbed her hand over her roundness - brushing a caress against Tywin's fingers as she went.

Selfishness sometimes liked to traipse around and call itself protection; Tywin knew well enough that he would never compromise the preservation of his legacy, but smothering it was equally hazardous.

He had essentially kept her to himself, but there was never a time he felt that that was not the proper course of action...

_No_, his thoughts argued, _she made the choice to keep near as well_.

Aside from the new Queen, he was all she had. What a sad truth; sharp and double edged, because even sadder, his mind ticked away in terrible honesty, was that aside from Kevan, _she _was all _he _had too.

It had never been an issue, being reliant on himself, he needed no one. The moment Joanna died, the requirement for companionship died too.

Or so he thought.

It took a marriage to a Northern girl and an onset of winter to realize that need never really dies, it only becomes dormant. And although he told himself that his only _need _was an heir, like anything that shakes off the listlessness of hibernation, the slow lumbering truth was that his real need was so much more.

"Are you lonely?" his mouth said the words, his thumb brushed lines on the bump of life inside her, and he did not know which of the two people in the room the question was meant for.

Suddenly _he _felt like a thick-headed child.

But her demeanour did not shift. When she looked at him, he could see in her stare consideration, not calculation, something thoughtful and genuine - and he hated the fact that he was anxious of her answer.

"In regards to being with child, yes."

"And in regards to everything else?"

She blinked at him, slowly, methodically, and answered truthfully, "No, my lord, I'm not."

Lord Tywin nodded absently as he absorbed her honesty, and spoke with the same amount of distraction, "I am afraid I'm not much of an authority on childbearing."

It was her chuckle that snapped him back into the moment, "A fine pair of midwives we make."

He scoffed at her sarcasm, it was a part of her that seemed to have developed on its own, though she rarely used it outside his company and never had it been cruel.

"I will send for someone who will tend to you - someone you can talk to."

Her smile faltered barely a degree, but he caught it plain as day.

Sansa abandoned her humour, "Who, my lord?"

"A woman."

One side of his wife's face pinched in annoyance at his own sarcasm, though his was never meant to be funny, except perhaps with her; and even then it was obscure, sometimes cutting, and always dry as Dorne.

They simply looked at each other for several moments until Tywin's fingers were wrapped up and twined in those of his wife. She did not break his gaze, but her features softened.

She looked so young without the harshness of courtly decorum.

And when she smiled at him with her eyes, he heard her agreement and gratitude as loud and as clear as if she had sung it by the lungful to the world around her.

He grinned, awkward and without warmth, but his own eyes were where Sansa knew to look - and it was there she saw a man who seemed to be awake for the first time in a long time.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It had taken quite a lot of coaxing and training of the four fierce men she was surrounded by daily, to have them not disturb her time alone in the godswood.

_No_, she surmised to herself, _it took cunning_.

More than once Sansa had found herself physically pulling them out of the clearing in which she prayed; the clank and rattle of their shifting stances and occasional investigations into the looming threat of curious squirrels were enough to yank her out of her contemplation and shove her directly into a fiery temper.

Their compromise culminated in the guards sweeping the clearing before standing at the gates with their charge out of visual range, but within shouting distance.

Tywin agreed to the lapse only after the proposed alternative of her joining him at counsel if he wanted her monitored so meticulously turned out not to be a mere threat.

As her pregnancy moved on, it left behind her inhibition; she had followed him into chambers a half a dozen times, once even sitting beside a thoroughly pleased Lord Varys; and for the sanity it would save him, the compromise was a small tax.

All she wanted was the peaceful freedom of her thoughts and memories in a place that reminded her of home.

Of the North.

The foliage was long gone from the canopy of the godswood, but the density of the branches did not allow much accumulation either. The ground was no longer lush and soft though, it was frozen hard under her feet - a detail that prompted her husband to insist on a bench being installed and _used_, as he would not have his wife, "_...kneeling in the frost like a savage_."

She smiled as she sat, glad of her husband's stubborn shade of thoughtfulness, bundled in a heavy cloak, soaking in the calm. Sansa grinned as she looked down the front of her; her cloak was so dense that her pregnancy was thoroughly concealed - until her hands moved covertly under the fabric to brush an outline of her babe.

_Their_ babe.

Though there was no weirwood tree in the godswood of King's Landing, Sansa often prayed that the old gods could see her, could see that she was well and that she was going to be a mother. She wanted her father to know that she was strong and that no matter where her child was born, that it would always be of the North.

Even the persistent caws of the raven that lived within the wood were a strange comfort.

Movement in her peripheral caught her attention, rustling from the shadows of her place of quiet reflection. It was common to see one of the many smaller forest animals that sometimes wandered into the godswood cross her path, and she watched with a smile to see which it would be, a rabbit, a fox...

But the shadow grew to a height well outside the norm of any four-legged beast that would be seen amongst the trees.

Her hands immediately covered her belly under her cloak and her breathing became rapid as she stood from the bench.

The shadow took shape of a hulking man, and Sansa's eyes went wide.

_The sour man._

"Guards! _Guards_!" she bellowed and gripped tight the babe inside her, protecting it as she backed away.

It was only moments until the rushing steps and calling voices of her protectors could be heard.

The shadow started to retreat and spoke as it vanished into the shifting blacks and greys from where it had emerged.

"_Little Bird_."

Sansa watched the figure disappear completely and was left wide eyed and shaking her head in quick little movements, trying to dislodge the words she thought she had heard.

Swords drawn, her four warriors were red-faced and poised to kill.

"A dog," she muttered, half in a daze, "I saw a large dog," turning toward the opposite direction from which her past had mingled with her present, she pointed, "it ran through that thicket."

Two men pursued her lie and the other two men wasted no time in escorting her back to the Keep.

The next handful of days she went to the godswood without fail; even when the wind was so bitter she had to cover her face and head with a thick wool scarf. She went at the same time every day, not praying, but hoping, and hoping _not_, to see the ghost again.

After a sennight Sansa knew for certain her vision had surely been a form of mother's sickness.

It was on the ninth day; however, her peace was disturbed by the flush of a group of birds sent flying away as their own peace at the edge of the clearing was intruded upon by a giant man shuffling through the underbrush.

Sansa stood once more, still nervous, but not entirely frightened.

The figure was hooded, dressed in no more than scraps and rags - brown dun mostly, and whatever else could be layered together in order to create warmth.

She _knew_ this man.

Nothing of the dull armour he used to live in could be seen or heard, and he was walking with a slight limp in his gait.

He approached her slowly, as though she were about to take flight like the birds he had already disrupted.

Sansa had no intention of leaving.

She craned her neck further back the closer he ventured; even in her growth she was nowhere near tall enough to look at him without effort.

He stopped just within arm's reach, she could hear an all too familiar growl from within the recess of the frayed hood and could not stop the grin that widened on her face.

It wasn't that she was happy to see the Hound, it was more that she had a confirmation of her past. She was not strictly made of the events of her here-and-now, she actually had history, and while it wasn't the person she would choose to define her, he had existed with her in a time that she remembered being happy... and in a time that she was not.

There was a large inhale from the depths of the men's cowl, then large hands rose to push the hood back.

It was exactly how she remembered, gruesome, though his scars were not as shockingly severe as she recalled from her memory. But then, she wasn't the same stupid little bird looking at him. What did strike her as frightening was how gaunt his face was; she then realized that it was the amount of clothing he wore that was contributing to the familiar bulk of the man before her.

The next thing she noticed was the clarity in his eyes. There was no watery blur, nothing drunken, nor the constant haze that made it hard to focus on him - even when he would rage at her to do so. The whites of his eyes were just that, no longer a sickly pitch of yellow - a hue that was ever emphasized in the green glow of the last night they saw each other.

_Sing for your life_...

"Not afraid to look anymore, Little Bird?" it was the all familiar rasp; steel on stone and an air of superiority.

It was another strange comfort in the godswood; as though it had not been years since they had seen one another.

Her voice was confident, if not a little distracted, "I have seen worse."

The remaining brow of Sandor Clegane lifted high, but instead of addressing the words she said, he questioned the words she didn't.

"Lost your courtesies along with your virtue, girl? No _ser_ or _my lord_?"

It was even the same mocking tone she remembered, even cruel words, but it no longer held the sharp edge they once did. No, now she found it all lacking; a base attempt to rattle her, a tactic long since outmaneuvered while in the company of men and women who _actually_ hated her.

"Did you acquire those titles since we last met?" It was dry, but not said unkindly.

His snort, however improper, was a pleasant thing to hear. It also seemed to lighten him a fraction.

"No, Little Bird, I've had everything taken away, not given."

"Is that what you are doing here? Begging?"

Sandor leaned his head back and grinned, it was an ugly thing.

"Aye, beg and _steal _mayhaps."

"Not much bounty in the godswood," she was tired of the game, she needed answers.

He ducked his head to look at her straight, and she knew his declaration before his lungs gave it life.

"I've found what I'm looking for, Little Bird," it was almost a sneer.

He must have been expecting her to blanch or protest or at the very least exhibit a look of concern because when her face displayed only annoyance, the man was at a loss.

"You are no more a wildling than we are in the North; you'll not _steal _me."

His face reddened and she thought he would fling his wrath, it never happened. Instead he spun around, paced away, then spun around and returned.

When he did not speak, only huffed, Sansa asked her own question.

"And where exactly would we go?" it was said with an air of disappointment.

"Pick a fucking direction, girl," he spat and raised his hands as if to display her options, "Don't tell me you like it here," he leaned down her with his all too familiar glare, "I can _still _smell a lie."

How do you explain the unexplainable to a man who distrusts the words you speak?

Sansa looked away in an effort to assemble what she needed to say, but her breath caught at the feel of fingers like iron clasping her chin and tilting her face to view his.

_No one_ touched her like that, not even her husband, not any more. And she had to douse the internal want to slap his hand away and upbraid his presumption.

She was not the girl he left behind, but he was blinded by what he thought he could see - the same indecisive bird waiting for a knight to rescue her, and impeded by what he refused to acknowledge - _he_ was trying to be that same bloody knight.

He cared, she knew. His intentions were for the good, she knew. His loyalty was for her alone, she _knew_.

And he had no idea.

Sansa did not breathe a sound, neither did she take her eyes off him; her own hand wrapped around his wrist - as much as it was able - and pulled his fingers away from her chin. She kept as much of a grip as she could hold on the deadly man and continued to move his hand downward.

Sandor's eyes widened minutely, feeling his knuckles brush down the long span of her pale throat.

The air hitched as he tried to exhale when Sansa pulled his brutish paw into the warmth of her cloak, over her collar and into the dips and bumps of the thick grey necklace she wore.

Their eyes stayed locked.

He bared his teeth, groaned some sort of whimper, and flipped his palm down when he felt the softness of her breasts through her bodice - but she did not stop.

When his hand finally halted, the lips of Sandor Clegane parted; but any words that were behind them ended before they began. He blinked out patterns and Sansa watched through the dark scruff on his neck the heavy rise and fall of the bulb in his throat; she knew these were a man's way to forcefully comprehend what he did not want to.

He was on the banks of the Trident again, lamenting of his should-haves, trying to end his life with a con, knowing that he would die a failure - that he had _failed her_.

And when men removed the possibility of death, he became restless and needed to try again - and succeed...

_...fuck_.

The giant man in front of her dropped hard to his knees and Sansa couldn't imagine the pain of landing, dead weight, on the pointed, uneven frozen ground. What was most curious though was that his hand never moved from her belly. Sandor slumped in what looked like defeat, hung his head and kept a gentle grip around her baby with his outstretched palm.

"_Too late_," the whisper was barely heard.

She watched as his whole body heaved to take in air, only to shiver and growl in an effort to push it out again through his teeth. He was fighting with himself and it was as though she stepped back in time; her memory flooded with pangs of old fear and waves of new fearlessness.

It was quite something to observe turmoil in this man from a position above.

"That fucking night..." his utterance came out as a retch, "I should have taken you-"

"With you? Or for pleasure?" her tone was even, but her words were terribly sharp.

Sansa knew what it was to be at the mercy of a man wanting to take what was not his; Sandor was that man for a brief moment once, the sour man more so; and after the more recent attempt, she further understood that ignorance, on both their parts - one built of youth, the other built of self loathing - saved them _both_ the night of Blackwater.

He looked at her then, but made no effort to move, neither did she.

"Do you have a blade?" her voice was serene.

The question seemed to come out of nowhere, but she was dauntless in the asking of it. It was what kept Sandor's eyes trained to hers as he used his free hand to pass her the deadliest honed shit-metal dirk that side of the Wall. A token scored from a boy he had to kill for trying to bleed out his own life in his sleep.

She took it without question and they, again, were frozen in time and weather in some sweet pose - the exception being that now one of them was armed.

Sansa had a plan, had an advanced notion of what she wanted to do; but once the heft of the knife bobbed her palm, all she could think about was the weight he had held her down with, the control he had wanted over her, and the icy bite of another blade - one that had rested dangerous on her neck.

She was becoming claustrophobic in the open air.

Long buried fury was burning its way to the forefront of her mind, licking and charring as it went, slowly, methodically, guiding her hand.

She laid the flat of the bruise coloured blade against the unburned side of this throat. The action did not startle him, but she could see his pulse under the growth of beard, through the dirt and grim, thrum a little faster.

Sandor had kept her eye, wary and a flicker akin to longing danced in them. She couldn't decide if he was longing for _her_ or for her to _end_ him. The former was something she, now that she had grown, _lived_, could not deny was in him during their life before; whether or not it was coupled with desire, or if she was simply the entity he felt earned that from him, she did not know.

What she _did _know was that he was not the same man; just as she was not the same girl.

On his knees, his giant hand still resting like a warm blanket over the babe she carried, his face somber; he tilted his head to the side, exposing more of his neck to her.

_A dare_? _A request_? She was unsure.

Focusing on the glint of steel against the thick coarse hair, she angled the blade a small amount and pushed delicately. The stiffness of the hair there was made almost brittle by the freezing temperature, but the knife's edge sheared it without catch or stutter.

The large man closed his eyes then, if this was to be his fate, his redemption, then so be it. He was not afraid of death. He had lived for her once, twice maybe, he would die for her as well, once more, if that was her will.

Sansa felt his fingers loosen on her belly, but his hand stayed; he had let her go, but not all the way; and that was the clearer sense of it all. Of them. Whatever _they _were. They were bound, by experience and circumstance, by anger and naivety, by _life_. It was shared ordeals; no matter how terrible, no matter how rudimentary or complex, it was in them; even after changes and transitions, their history remained.

He would never ask for forgiveness, though she was intuitive enough to know that _that _was what he wanted.

The greater question was if she was prepared to give it.

She angled the knife again and watched the tip slip just under the skin, watched the first bead of crimson form on the steel and steam and fail to fall because of the cold.

His breathing slowed, she could see, the features of the unruined side of his face were peaceful.

She was still so delicate, but no longer a little bird, there was strength there too; in her eyes, mostly in her confidence. Sandor could easily see, _feel_, she had formed herself around whatever occurred after he had left. Claimed whatever it was and allowed it to make her stronger.

He was sure Tywin Lannister would have shelved her away to breed; he was also sure he was glad that he had been wrong.

It suited her; this strength, this steely resolve and mysterious intimidation. She held it well and, again, it was the confidence that allowed her to wield the thing with lethal precision.

Sandor felt... _proud_ perhaps; maybe even happy that this was her fate. Something he was able to see for himself before his end.

He heard various snips and cuts, and wondered if Lady Sansa had also become cruel under the tutelage of Lord Tywin, until he acknowledged that the cold blade was no longer on him.

The confusion he felt, regardless of how mild, threatened to spark the anger in him that some, including himself, had called The Hound; a threat that was controlled now, sometimes easily, sometimes not, he willed that part of him to remain buried all the same.

_The Hound is dead... and so is his Little Bird._

As Sansa clipped and plucked every gold button, fastening and jeweled bead from the gown beneath her cloak, she tried to form the words and sentences explaining her actions.

Nothing was lining up.

All she could see in her periphery were eyes, sharp and dissecting, assessing her and culminating their own answers.

When she was finished, her dress looked slightly tattered, no more; but it was nothing her cloak wouldn't hide - getting rid of the gown itself would be the greater challenge.

Sansa gave the knife back and watched as he tucked it under his layers, no more than ribbons really, of coverings. When she held his gaze again she felt a calm overtake her - it wasn't to push away fear, there was too much warmth for that, it emanated from her chest outward and she recognized it as the assuredness she gained from the godswood.

The little girl who put so much faith in faith was long put to bed, but the flutter of dreams from that same little girl allowed her more cynical older self to believe in a tiny bit of guidance.

A tiny bit of conviction.

Taking her free hand, she gently pulled Sandor's away from her belly and turned it upward. His eyes shifted to the glittering bits that were plinking into the well of his palm.

It wasn't much.

She needed more.

Her eyes must have flashed worry because the deep set grey ones in front of her narrowed in question.

Lady Lannister tilted her vision down to the child made of her and her husband, then looked once more at the man who had just held onto that life, gentle and protective.

Bringing her hands up and behind her neck, Sansa dug and fumbled until she found what she needed and, with a rather unsophisticated grunt, she unlatched the heavy white gold necklace, with the even heavier ruby, that she had become known for.

And as she held it out to the man on his knees, she knew there would be a great cost. This single action would be paid for in lives, she knew; as she bit back the sting of tears she felt her child move, and in that one tender moment she also understood that the value of life fluctuated.

A heinous circumstance; one that if she lived in a better world, she would never have to remove hesitation from preserving herself and what was hers. If the possibility of benefit for her children's future meant a sacrifice now, she would shoulder that burden gladly.

But that was the gamble; was this man worth the cost, would her venture pay out in the end - there was no real certainty, there was only chance.

The precious metal and jewels landed sound in the large hand below.

_Yes_, even her thoughts would brook no opposition, _it is worth it_.

Sansa mustered every sliver of determination and poise that belonged to her before addressing him.

"You have to live, Sandor." her brow sunk as she became commanding, "_Promise_ me."

The big man took a few swaying tries before he was able to stand at full height; stretching himself high; first looking down at her, then to her middle, then back to her eyes again with an intensity that required inner reassurance that whatever he was radiating was _for _her, not _against _her.

And when he spoke, she knew it was a vow.

"I _promise_."

They were two words she felt rumble out of him, that came from somewhere behind the blood and meat and bone - there was no question of truth.

He closed his fist around her investment and it was like closing a book.

The hulking man backed away into the shadows again; and Sansa could see, as bright as any sun, the glimmer in his eyes.

It wavered slightly, but it was there all the same; a life, a hope, a mark to strive for, or simply a soldier tasked with a mission. Whatever it was, it hung on him like natural finery; priceless and incomparably sublime.

Sansa couldn't help it, couldn't stop it even if she wanted to, she smiled at Sandor Clegane as one would a friend. And she was sure, as the dark shade finally overtook him in his retreat, _she was sure _Sandor Clegane smiled back.

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_** A huge thank you to my beta, content developer, researcher, sounding-board, and internet life-partner: dealbreaker19 **_


	7. Wonder pt IIa

***Note:** This is the first of two parts.*

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Sansa's dream was filled with conversation, a man and a woman; and what began as a sunny vision of her mother and father talking, slid as the talking shifted to accusations, into a dark pit of hate.

Her mother became faceless in the midst of the yelling; and her father grew taller, leaner... golden.

She had taken to lying down in the hours before supping with Tywin and occasionally woke to the voices of Ser Kevan or Ser Jaime, but never to that of a woman. Never to a woman yowling in pain.

Her belly had become cumbersome of late, prompting Lord Tywin to have a maid at her side at all times he was not.

Deena was immediately at her service, assisting her rise from the bed.

Standing cold in her nightdress, Sansa held out her hand and signaled for the older woman to obtain and dress her in her husband's robe; at the same time she spoke low, "The commotion Deena, what is it?"

"It's no good, m'lady," the woman's voice was even softer than her own, "your necklace, m'lord's favourite, is missing."

The handmaid wore a look of seriousness, "Th' new one, don't know her name, she was to clean it, but brought the box t'Lord Tywin instead. She says it were found empty, but m'lord says she lies."

Whatever sleep was remaining in Sansa fled from the inferno of fear that had sparked and ignited within her.

This was it. This was the cost of paying a debt owed to a man who had protected her as well as he could and who had saved her life more than once - the exchange of another life. Not that Sandor would care or think at all about that particular price being paid, but _she _would.

Wasting no time to ready and dress, Sansa padded through the small corridor and approached the entrance of the sitting room. She no longer heard malicious words, but what she _did_ hear was equally dreadful.

The noise was sharp followed by a sorrowful yelp and repeated inconsistently. It made her lungs forget how to breathe. Every acute slap hung in the air like thorns on a vine, but it was the utter misery behind it that made her feet move.

Stepping into the large room, she took a deep breath and surveyed the situation at hand.

Toward the fire, at the rear of the sofa, Tywin had his back to her. He was standing calmly, no longer yelling; there was no indication that he was infuriated - and _that_ was terrifying - but equally terrifying was what lay on the ground.

Sprawled close to the hearth were the broken remains of the jeweler's box that had contained her necklace. It had been thrown down with a force strong enough to bend the solid key and shatter the expertly crafted wood at the corners. The plush bag that held the finery was close enough to the flames that it had charred, and the two halves of the lead seal had melted into a small reflective pool.

In front of her husband lay a girl, no older than Sansa herself, who was trying hard to eat the sobs that were ripping out of her. She could see panic in her eyes and trickles of blood staining the backs of her calves. The girl was propped on her side, using both hands to keep her body up, but by the way her legs were together and angled inward, it was easy to see she had started in a bent position.

The handmaid was beseeching her lord for mercy; Sansa went cold.

"Stand up," it was a clipped command, but not acrimonious. However, Sansa knew Tywin well enough that she was fully aware what was not heard in his voice nor shown as outward physical characteristics, hovered just below the surface and was no less pestilent.

The girl climbed with her arms, up the back of the sofa and stood on shaky legs. She was bleating for her life; her words were swallowed by callous indifference, her plight ignored.

The next observed move forcefully repelled Sansa both in steps and years; Tywin's arm raised high and back, and what was initially hidden in front of his relaxed stance but was now frighteningly clear; his sword; it was oiled and polished and performing the task it was created for - inflicting injury.

With one savage swing, the flat of the blade cut through lesser fabric to punch into flesh and Sansa felt needling pains working their way over the spider web of scarring that painted her body.

She heard a rush in her ears and at the same time felt her head pound hard - taking the brunt like an anvil in a smithy.

"Put your hands out," another cold command, and the scared girl quaked in her submission.

With the maids hands stretched out flat before him, her husband once again reached back with his sword; Sansa watched horrified as the blade twisted its angle; a flick of the wrist and Tywin had turned the steel in order to chop, to sever.

It was too much.

Her chest ached, but the worst of it was the cramping spasm starting just above her groin and striking like lightning down the backs of her legs.

_The babe..._

_It's too soon_...

"Stop!"

It was not the word that halted Tywin in his punishment; it was the way it had pitched in broken anguish.

Arm arched back, he pivoted at the waist and saw his wife, dressed in bedclothes and his robe, barely holding herself up at the edge of their desk. Her face was a sheen of sweat, her outer arm was cradling her belly, her entire body shaking.

"_My lord_... _please_..." her voice was so spent in her pain, it was all but air.

"Maester!" he screamed at the handmaid who immediately lifted her beaten body, turned and ran - calling for help and for Pycelle alike.

Dropping the honed weapon, Tywin went to Sansa, picking her up gently, urgently, taking her back to their bedchamber; ordering Deena to ready water to boil and gather linens if needed.

She was muttering through her waves of panic and hurt, "_No more, Tywin_... _Leave her_.._._"

"Hush, girl," he was distracted as he set her to bed, but if he was focused on something specific his demeanor gave no hint, "lay still, Pycelle will be here soon."

"_No more_..." she whimpered through clenched teeth.

Her husband was wiping sweat from her face and neck with his hand, his eyes were darting the length of her then back to hers.

His brow was pinched, but he did not look angry. "Yes, fine," he murmured preoccupied.

Sansa gathered herself and asked her shaky, serious question, "Am I b-bleeding?"

Tywin did not want to look, _gods_, he did not want to know.

His hand pulled her hem up anyway.

His eyes moved to the gusset of her underclothing anyway.

His teeth ground and his chest cinched anyway.

"There is a small amount of blood," Tywin's voice was distant, and he could feel his mind pulling away from her as well.

This was not supposed to happen, this didn't happen before. He held no answer, no experience to fall back on; and it was making him furious.

He could do no more than pet her crown and simply be there, but she was calming all the same and Tywin only hoped that that would be enough.

Maester Pycelle hurried into the room surrounded by a small army of similarly dressed younger men - apprentices, he assumed.

Whatever the maester's instructions had been, they evaporated from his mind before he could comprehend them. The simple truth was that this was not his skill, he did not know what plagued his wife, nor did he have the ability to cure it.

Tywin started to back away, but was held fast by a delicate hand clasping his fingers - no, not held, there was no strength in her grip to physically restrain him, but he stopped nonetheless.

He curled his fingers and looked to his wife. The sweat was beading on her upper lip, he knew she was in pain, but her eyes were pacifying; he found himself recouping composure, the frustration draining, and perhaps that was her intention - since _she_ was the one to let go of him.

Sansa blinked slowly and smiled a tiny bit.

He felt the threatening crush of hurt, the one he refused to acknowledged until that very moment, dissipate as he backed away; the spot at her side immediately assumed by a young man asking questions.

Turning to leave the chamber, Tywin was preoccupied, but as soon as he entered the sitting room and his peripheral sensed the familiar figure of the girl, _the fucking thief_, picking up the pieces of the splintered box at the hearth, his mind snapped to darkness once more.

His sword had been picked up and sheathed in its place with his armour, tucked away in an alcove adjacent their desk.

His hate of the thief,_ the meat_, only intensified; _it _was the reason Sansa was going to...

The darkness had him walking.

The darkness bent him down and wrapped his hand around the throat of the meat.

The darkness hauled it off its feet and started to tighten the vice of his fingers.

_No more, Tywin_... _Leave her_.._._

Breathing heavy at the terrified girl, his eyes glossing at the thought and want of bloody violence, he growled his disdain.

"You will thank your lady for the sparing of your life," he was shaking the fist curled around the maids slender neck, "but make one misstep, girl, and I will have you stripped bare and packed with the wealth you covet," he sneered as he eyed her from head to toe, "_anywhere_ your body can carry it."

His grip tightened on the girl's throat and he watched in satisfaction as her eyes bulged, the veins within became more pronounced; her lips darkened, exhaling tiny sprays of spittle in her effort to breathe.

Other handmaids and the apprentices Maester Pycelle brought to assist him hurried around them, the lion and his prey, where they stood in the sitting room, like they were invisible. Not one of them dared risking a side glance for fear of the Hand's ire.

Leaning to the girl's ear, Tywin made his promise, "Then I will set you loose in Flea Bottom." he whispered, "Recall what the filth did for a loaf of bread? Imagine what they'd do to a whore filled with silvers."

A telltale sound caused Tywin to glance down to her feet then back to her eyes; he looked deadly, and sounded more so, "You will sop up your piss, clean yourself - _then_ you will tend to your lady," he measured each syllable, "as though your life depends on it."

The girl's neck was constricted so much that speech was not an option, she gurgled to her liege as best she could, utterly frightened.

When he let her go, the maid's knees gave out and to her credit she knew better than to pass up the opportunity. Using her rough spun dress, she mopped away her water then staggered on lashed and bleeding legs toward the servant's entrance.

Lord Tywin moved to the center of the sitting room, watching the chaos eventually fade to nothing, then listened for - and dreaded to hear - any distress coming from their bedchamber.

He didn't know how long he stood there but when Pycelle finally came to him, his hands were cramping in the fists he didn't know he had made.

"Lady Sansa will be allowed no movement for the next sennight, my lord," the maester addressed him seriously, "save the natural needs of the body, of which she is to be assisted."

The stare Tywin offered the man was piercing, "And what of the child?"

"The child is well, my lord, and will remain so as long as the mother reduces her stress. What happened today happens to most women in an environment that can be taxing-"

"It didn't happen to _Joanna_," Tywin snarled.

Grand Maester Pycelle furrowed his brow slightly, he knew the Hand's first wife, and wore a look of sympathy, "That may be so, my lord, but neither did she have her children _here_."

There was a heaviness between the two men, but it was nothing of rage and more of knowing. They each were well aware of the effect King's Landing had on even the healthiest of people; people who had _chosen _to be there.

But Tywin also knew that his own actions were of no help either; and what a choking, bitter pill to swallow remorse was for a man like him.

The announced presence of Ser Kevan disrupted Tywin's thoughts and prompted him to dismiss the maester with a lazy flick of his fingers.

Once Pycelle had left, Tywin looked at his brother and spoke in a tired voice, "I'll not hear pity."

Kevan looked to his older brother with a small amount of levity, "I'm here to know the wellbeing of your babe and Lady Sansa, not to offer _you _pity."

Tywin scoffed before he spoke, "She will recover," as he turned to walk to his desk, he continued, "Pycelle assures me the babe is unharmed." His voice notched darker as he sat and idled through parchments, "This is some _common course_, apparently."

"It is, my lord," Kevan waited for his brother to look at him again, "My Dorna was set to rest for nearly a moon's turn at a time."

Tywin addressed his brother severely, sardonically, "Your wife barely sets foot beyond your home, how is it she could be burdened?"

Kevan did not flinch; he knew this part of Tywin. He knew that this was how his brother gathered and made sense of information for his inner reference; so when he replied, his voice reflected that understanding.

"She is nervous by her very nature, but she has given me three healthy boys," at that Kevan blinked his eyes away from his brother for a moment, remembering that his boys now numbered only two. Clearing his throat he looked again at Tywin's icy glare, "and a healthy daughter."

Tywin softened his look but only a fraction and gave his brother an acknowledging, perhaps reassuring, nod.

"I had already sent for a companion," Tywin pinched his thumb and forefinger at his brow, as if holding in the things he needed to remember, "The waterways are no longer treacherous, she should be here within days."

Kevan spoke with a groan, in a tone that was unchecked, "Not that ancient midwife from the Rock, I hope. That woman scares even you, don't deny it."

A scoff tumbled from Lord Tywin for the second time, but it did not lighten his countenance.

"No, _that_ woman is held together by witchcraft, to be sure - she would thrive here and I'll not give her an advantage."

His younger brother laughed then, and while Tywin took a moment to let him enjoy it he did not partake, "Our sister will the one to grace us with her presence, and," his look turned solemn, "assist Sansa where she is able."

Kevan's laughter faded but his smile did not, "You may have been wiser to summon the midwife."

Tywin stood then, cocking his bow and tilting his head - silently agreeing with the younger Lannister - as he walked toward the bedchamber where his wife was resting.

Kevan nodded a bow and turned on his heel to leave; like any brother, wise to the actions and unspoken directions of another.

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Sansa feared her husband would have had her own quarters readied for use; but when he returned after the maester had left that awful afternoon, she had weakly begged him not to send her away. He had said nothing, only frowned and ran his fingers down her cheek before leaving her once more to complete his duties.

Later, when she woke up again, it was well into the night; she had been propped up almost in a sitting position with her neck supported; and at her side was a man, _her man_, curled into the pillows that were edging her hips and legs in order to limit her movement; he had his hand tucked, bedgown and all, between her thighs near her knees and was sleeping soundly.

She couldn't see his face at the angle he had wrapped himself into her, only the back of his head and neck.

Her hand, already resting on the blade of his shoulder, gently moved upward; Sansa smiled in anticipation and proceeded to drag her fingernails, light as a feather, from as far forward on his scalp as she could reach to the collar of his bedgown at his nape.

Her smile widened, she wasn't disappointed; she had stumbled onto this particular trait of her husband not long after she had conceived the first time.

He had hugged himself into her side that time too, an act that was nothing new in their bed, but when she accidentally traced her fingers over his scalp she thought she had hurt him.

Out of his mouth, out of his throat to be accurate, came a long, bright, airy sigh.

She had waited for him to say something, to explain the odd behaviour or snarl at her, but instead she only heard his soft snoring.

It was such a contrast to the man she knew awake; the deadly, vicious lion. But it was also something of him that was strictly her own, something not even _he _knew about, something she delighted in every time the opportunity presented itself.

In the days that followed, he did not turn her away; on the contrary Lord Tywin seemed to draw her closer, draw his _asset _closer. But whatever the reasoning, Sansa felt better for him doing so, and in turn better on the whole.

Early in the evening of her sixth day confined to bed, Sansa woke once again to conversation; only this time it was a woman's voice that was in command, and oddly reprimanding.

"...is replaced easier, Ty, a babe or a damned _necklace_?"

She heard the distinctive rumble of her husband, but could not distinguish what he was saying.

Twisting in her effort to focus, Sansa groaned at the discomfort and stiffness that seemed to blanket her body; Deena was immediately at her side an imploring her to remain still.

She didn't want to, she was becoming agitated in her restrictions - so much, that she had taken to walking slow and extended pathways to the privy - often - it was her only time of freedom.

Sansa was brought back into the moment by Deena arranging her hair brush and washing accessories at the bedside.

"Lady Genna has arrived," the maid started as she set to striping and washing her charge, "M'lord wanted you readied as soon as you woke, to meet her."

Sansa nodded absently, letting the handmaiden dress and groom her as necessary, and remained silent when Deena announced her lady was prepared to take visitors.

She felt a fool; dressed in a wonderful gown, large as an ox, surrounded by bolsters, sitting rod straight on a plush bed.

_A bloody fool._

When Tywin walked in, he was trailed by a woman his physical opposite. Where her husband was tall and lean, Lady Genna was short and plump. She had the same golden curls and piercing green eyes that defined her as a Lannister, and her proportions only seemed to add a character of ferocity.

She was painted, but not as heavily as Sansa had seen on some woman of court; and her dress was cut lower in the front to accentuate her generous cleavage.

Sansa looked at the woman, looked her in the eyes as she accepted the chair her brother brought over to her, and knew that everything she portrayed outwardly was as calculated and purposed as everything Tywin kept locked inside himself.

As equal and contrasting as two siblings could be.

_Arya_.

Tywin sat at an angle on the edge of the bed, his thigh against her ankle, and rested his hand on the inside of her calf. It was an action that was more than subtle, especially when his thumb moved in circles; a gesture she well knew was his way of offering comfort.

When her husband raised his eyes to her, she smiled at him; a comfort as genuine and profound his own.

"Lady Genna, my wife, Lady Sansa."

The introductions were perfectly appropriate, but in the confines of a bedchamber they also felt out of place.

Genna nodded demurely and Sansa caught Tywin narrowing his eyes at her - it was a sign that whatever his sister was doing was outside ordinary. Which was confusing, since the older woman responded as decorum allotted.

Lord Tywin looked to focus on his wife, "I trust her to advise and prepare you as your time nears."

Again, the speech would be appropriate under normal circumstance, but somehow it felt awkward between those three people.

Either way, Sansa nodded to her husband and turned her pleasantries toward her new midwife.

"I thank you, Lady Genna, for your availability in answering any questions I may have." it was said with a smile, but both women knew it was for no more than show.

Tywin interjected in a tone of authority, one that shot him with annoyance from green eyes and confusion from blues eyes.

"She will also be in the birthing chamber with you, Sansa." he cleared his throat at his sister's continued harsh scrutinizing look. "If you wish," he finished displeased.

At that very moment Sansa knew the exact amount of dependency she had on her husband. It had never occurred to her that he wouldn't be with her when she delivered; it was a thought that caused her to gulp and fight against the want to breathe shallow.

"I... want _you _there, my lord," the statement was confident, but the eyes she laid on Tywin were sheer panic.

He tilted his head in question at his wife, and before either of them could make an utterance, Lady Genna spoke in a way that reminded Sansa of Cersei. It was a tone that harboured a sense covert assessment.

"That may be how it's done in the North but rest assured, my lady, Tywin would be about as useful to you in the birthing chamber as teats would be on a bull."

Sansa blushed scarlet and stared at the woman, her mouth agape slightly, not knowing if Lady Genna understood the consequences her words could earn her. She looked again to her husband who, at once, stood up, raised his brows and scoffed as he walked out of the room.

"The same amount of couth as always Genna."

They were left then, the two of them, two ladies, staring at one another.

The older wore a hint of a smirk, the younger a perfect mask of courtly indifference.

Sansa appreciated Tywin's thought of her well being, but at the same time she couldn't help but think he sent for his sister out of selfishness too. The only thing she knew of this woman, with any certainty, was that she was a Frey.

"You don't know me, yet you don't like me," there was no offence in Lady Genna's words.

If she could have, Sansa would have remained silent; but her courtesies would have none of it.

"You're half right," perhaps not her courtesies per se, than more her sarcasm - a lingering trace of Tyrion's influence.

Lady Genna grinned broadly, in a way that included her eyes and not just her mouth, and barked out a laugh. Tywin's sister was anything but a soft wife, wrapped in duty and propriety.

"Ty said you were friend to the imp," she narrowed her eyes at Sansa, "I tend not to speak anything of the boy to his father anymore. However, whatever doubt _his _insistence left, _you've _eradicated."

Sansa's brow came low and pinched, "How would three words tell you differently?"

The features of Lady Genna's face softened as she spoke, "Who do you think taught Tyrion those three words, child?"

Sansa dipped her head to hide her smirk, her scoff was unmistakable though.

"I'm happy to be spoken to with the words of my nephew - but tell me Lady Sansa, why do you look at me with the wary suspicion of my brother?"

Any humour, no matter how slight, left the room.

Raising her head, Sansa's face wore nothing of the pleasantness it held before. Instead it was with a deadly countenance she addressed her good-sister.

"You are a _Frey_."

She needed no further explanation; Lady Genna was cunning enough to know her history, to know the singular betrayal that cut her to the bone.

"I am no more a Frey than _you_ are, my lady."

Genna looked thoughtfully at the young lady wearing the stony face, before continuing.

"My father was a fool, talked into giving me away to a second son when I could barely count past what my fingers showed me; the only person who spoke against my father's stupidity was Ty, and _he _was only three years older."

Sansa was rapt in her words, but outwardly showed nothing of her curiosity.

Lady Genna smiled then and it was nothing like Cersei. It was not overly gentle, but where the Queen looked on with an air of malicious judgment, _this _lioness promised truths - regardless of the toll, yes - but in _that_ she was like Tywin, she was familiar and something of a comfort.

"Were you there, my lady," Sansa's voice was small but her eyes were confident, "at the... wedding?"

She spent many moons trying to forget what her mother had told her only to have those same words haunt her, sometimes for nights on end. But if there was to be any form of trust with this woman, there had to be benchmarks for honesty.

The older woman looked at her carefully before speaking, looking almost in appraisal.

"No child, my interest does not extend to the spawn of Walder Frey - it barely reaches my husband." Genna paused to quirk her lip in something of a smile, "I am a _Lannister_, and would have been quite a prize for the North if I were to be within their grasp."

It was Sansa's turn to scrutinize; she tilted her head as if to see Lady Genna at a clearer angle.

"Did you know about it?"

"I knew that Emm was to be Lord of Riverrun before the crown reneged its support. I also knew that Tywin would have ensured that agreement was honored if Riverrun had fallen."

The older woman inhaled deeply through her nose, "Whatever plans that were conceived, remained among only a handful of people, and _I_ was not one of them."

Lady Genna flashed a look, first of disappointment, then of anger; and it was in that brief heartbeat that she looked like the former queen - it was the look of a woman whose ambition outgrew their expected role, and to be reminded of that fact was tantamount to slander.

Sansa knew her place in the world, she had known it almost as far back as she could remember. And for the longest time she thought that meant acceptance of weakness, acceptance of inferiority and complacency. It wasn't until King's Landing that she understood from what kind of horror her mother and father sheltered her.

She knew that this world had no room for weakness, inferiority or complacency, _die and get out of the way_, and required its own mechanism in order to survive.

Cersei had told her that a woman's weapons were tears and what lay between her legs; Tywin had taught her that those two things were anticipated lures and a true weapon would be something unforeseen.

The older woman inclined her head and watched Sansa sift through her inner deliberations.

"You may wonder if I oppose Ty for marrying you as a strategy during war," it was in a tone of certainty, "The answer is no. He is my brother, he is my lord, and I will support him to my dying breath."

The face of Lady Genna softened then, considerably, so much that Sansa could feel some of the tension leave her muscles as she absorbed the offered altruism, "I can, however, assure you that I know how you felt. Perhaps, how you still feel..."

The look of the older woman reminded Sansa of her own mother, how she would always just _know_, but her good-sister was far more openly shrewd, "Although if you are _truly _unhappy you hide it much better than most, girl."

Sansa smiled at her then, a grin to match the older woman's words and opinions - something honest.

"Come, Sansa," Lady Genna stood and made to help the younger lady out of bed, "you must be close to lunacy, sitting stiff as a corpse in this room."

"I have one more day, my lady. The maester said I was to remain unmoved for a sennight."

"Are you in pain or discomfort low in your belly?"

Sansa took a moment to wriggle and think.

"No..."

Lady Genna spoke, and it was with the same air of mischief she both loved and treated cautiously in Tyrion.

"Bugger the maester! When the man has birthed a child, we'll take him to heart."

_We'll_.

She was sharing the blame already and for some reason Sansa felt at ease - it was boggling. But in the same breath it made sense; if this was the woman that helped shape Tyrion, then it wasn't such a stretch to, at the very least, enjoy her company like she did her friend.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

He did not know if he was remembering this part of childbearing correctly.

Tywin simply wasn't the man he was three decades prior when his first wife experienced the same... _fits of need_. Sansa was young, but he didn't know if that was directly proportionate to the amount of desire she was exuding. He couldn't clearly recall if Joanna also demanded attention nightly, sometimes daily as well, or if it was something he had obliged without consideration then.

Either way, he was no more that young man than he could conjure the amount of virility his wife required to be sated - regardless of the persuasion she put forth.

Though, it was not to say the man didn't try.

However, exhaustion had claimed him mid-stride earlier in the evening, and coupled with his wife's look of agitated disappointment, it was one strike against his pride too many.

So when Tywin woke to find his wife panting at him for a second time that night, he pushed her back firmly into her pillows and drawled in sleepy bitterness.

"If you persist in waking me for no other purpose than to rut, it will be _I_ that sleeps in the other bedchamber."

Sansa said nothing; the only sounds coming from her in the dark were whimpers and the distinctive noise of her writhing in her want.

His wife demanded nothing of affection, just the act to scratch the itch of lust; and hearing her beg without words provoked his cock to harden against his will. But even that initial pooling of arousal drained him of the strength he needed to act on it, and he knew that if he fought through the lag he would be useless in the following days work.

His duty to the realm would always be his priority.

When he made to lie back down, he felt claws dig into his shoulder.

"No, you _can't_..." her voice sounded of desire, all breathy and low.

She would _not_ command him, his mind snapped, she would _not_ control him.

"I _can_ Sansa, good night." It was final, his tone sharp and impatient, but her nails dug in deeper as he moved further away.

When she attempted to shuffle her body to follow him, with a great amount of difficulty, his annoyance stepped forward. She was too far along to be maneuvering like she was and her disregard was like a slap in the face.

Tywin rolled toward her, and even though his grip was gentle and his hand was guiding tenderly, his throaty growl as he did so was set in anger.

Once he had her settled again, propped a little higher on her pillows, Tywin roughly grabbed and yanked at the hem of her bedgown. Hearing it tear he waited for his wife to protest and end the foolishness on her own - he hadn't expected her to spread her legs and encourage him with a moan.

It only served to annoy, and harden, him further.

Sansa had been forgoing sleeping in small clothes as of late, and his fingers brushed the curls of her juncture as he pulled material upward. The action unleashed another moan into the quiet of the room - from _whom _it came - was the question.

In the darkness he missed her reaching; she groped the length of his manhood through his bedclothes, which rewarded her with the sound of air being punched out of him.

He gripped her wrist firmly and pulled the adventurous hand until it was in front of his face. Shifting his grip upward, Tywin straightened her fingers.

Sansa had begun to speak a plea to her husband, but snapped her lips shut when she felt her fingers being placed on his tongue. His mouth closed around them as he laved thoroughly. She wrinkled her nose; her inclination was to be disgusted but her mind presented images of intimacies _she_ had instigated in that very bed with her own tongue; her mind settled on being confused.

Her husband removed her fingers from his mouth, tugged her hand lower to where he pushed aside her nightgown and pressed them, his own firmly placed on top, to her heat.

She gasped at the touch, then blinked fast as she felt the buzz of Tywin's voice, a sneer - but that mattered none - reverberate from her ear to where her fingers rested.

"Do it _yourself_."

This time when her husband rolled away, Sansa did not follow. Her lungs took air deeply as she moved her fingers in the way she liked, the way that made her mind feel like it was singing a refrain - whose notes sometimes escaped her thoughts by way of her mouth.

With her belly at such a great size she had to lean to reach, but there was no strain in finding the button she knew would unlock the satisfaction she was hunting.

In small circles and teasing contact she worked her bud stiff, she could hear her wetness build and even her own mewling drove herself wild.

"_Fuck_!"

The angry pointed curse ripped through the room.

The word startled Sansa, but it was the distinct motion of Tywin forcefully getting out of bed that completely snuffed out whatever pleasure she was careening towards.

She instantly felt annoyed, but then pangs of guilt hit her - she did not consider how loud she was, how her actions would disturb his sleep.

_Her_ needs were her focus, not her husband's.

She waited to hear the door open and close - signifying his leave - but rather felt his strong arms and hands curl under her, lifting and pulling her toward the edge of the bed. She was left sputtering in question, she could not determine his intent; likely he was taking _her_ to the other bedchamber.

Her bewilderment turned to dust when he rucked her bedgown over her belly, exposing her core, and positioned himself between her thighs. He didn't speak a word, didn't even remove his bedgown past hiking it higher, but Sansa could discern Tywin was huffing in both exasperation and passion; the dark room was to her aid, as she knew the broad smile of victory she wore would have only made him angry.

That same smile was abandoned the moment her pressed into her.

It was relief, it was euphoric; the blissful groan she cast to echo around them spoke as much.

Her legs were pliable, slipping down to dangle awkwardly even with her best effort at hooking them around his waist. Tywin took both and brought them around the front of him, pressed them together and hugged them for leverage; grunting as he fucked into her with every fraction of his frustration and desire.

It didn't take long for Sansa to reach her peak; clawing at the linens as the strong waves of pleasure swept the world away from her.

She resurfaced to her husband losing his rhythm, swallowing air and muttering her name in huffs and coughs; when he ground into her as his own release claimed him, Sansa reached one hand as far as her body would allow her and dug her fingertips into the flesh at his hip - to which he snarled and fucked into her twice more, hard, before slipping out spent.

Tywin hugged her legs tighter, convincing his body to level its breathing, and after a few moments could feel them quiver. It wasn't due to the position he held them in; as his breath evened and quieted, he heard the reason for her shivering.

His wife was laughing. A low chuckle made of jubilation as much as peace of mind.

"This is funny to you?" His agitation could not be swayed, not even by joy.

"No, my lord..."

Giggling sent tiny rippling messages to Tywin, telling him her constitution remained gladdened.

"Keep laughing, I will find someone else to do this in my stead."

Sansa hummed then, a tune that sounded playful, that sounded as though she was contemplating Tywin's threat as a viable option. She knew there was a chance of raising his ire, but her mind did not seem to care.

Her legs were still draped up his torso, her heels resting on his shoulder. She sensed him move back slightly then felt the sting and heard the clap of his hand swatting her backside. It was nothing punishing, it was almost as playful as her laughter, causing Sansa to laugh all the harder.

"Be careful what you wish for, girl," his tone couldn't be described as jovial, but it was certainly more casual than serious, "spite is never comely."

Her arse was met with another spank, eliciting a giddy cry to spill from her lips; at the same time her husband scooped her up again to shift her back further on the bed, then left her side.

Sansa lay boneless, smiling like the satisfied wanton she was, reveling in the calm her release brought her and the delicate musky scent that hung in the air every time they bedded. She heard Tywin approach; using a soft touch to seek her in the inky black, he gently cleaned away his seed and her wet.

When he had finished, he once again cradled her in an effort to arrange her comfortably amongst her pillows, but as he leaned closer she wound her arms around his neck.

She kissed him on the face; aiming for his mouth, her lips landed high on his cheek - close to his eye as far as she could tell.

There was a stillness between them for heartbeats before his nose nudged along her cheek until his mouth was over hers; he kissed his wife deeply.

Tywin's mouth was dry, he was still breathing heavily through his nose - a testimony of their previous exertions - it encouraged Sansa to kiss him strategically; first to wet his tongue and palate, then to slow his pulse.

She knew of her success when he pulled away from their kiss only to rest his forehead on hers, purring his own music.

Her fingers worked along the muscles of her husband's neck and shoulders as they settled in their silence. His face was close, so when she spoke she barely needed the air to whisper.

"I am now. Always."

"Always what?" his was a voice of stubbornness fending against exhaustion.

"Careful what I wish for." It came out sadder than it should have - but it could have been a trait of the whisper.

Tywin let out a heavy sigh as he brought up a hand, rested it on her crown and stroked his thumb over her sweat-dampened hair.

"I'd suspect you would be."

Dipping his mouth again, he kissed her lightly before standing straight and walking back to his side of the bed. As he rounded the foot, his harsh serious voice tore through the haziness of the room.

"You'll leave me alone now, _you_."

The corner of Tywin Lannister's mouth twitched at the sound of his wife's carefree chortle.

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** A huge thank you to my beta, content developer, researcher, sounding-board, and internet life-partner: dealbreaker19 **


	8. Wonder pt IIb

Sansa supposed she should have paid more mind to the throb in her back, but it was nothing she hadn't felt before, and she _had_ been walking when it began.

Her time was close, within days, and her body was becoming a misery; ankles swelling, having to make water even at the thought, mood swings the likes of which caused Tywin to openly question her sanity - and entertained Genna to no end - a burning in her throat... and leaking.

She was leaking from _everywhere_.

But it must have been the culmination of everything else that kept her distracted from the ache in her back, because as she was she sat with Lady Genna and Queen Margaery that she felt a torrent of wet soak down her thighs.

Stuck speechless, mortified, Sansa thought she had made water on herself - a thought shared by Margaery if the look on her face were to be judged. However it was Genna who spoke; in a tone and manner that was not her usual sarcasm. She sounded the same way Catelyn Stark did in her dreams - the good ones, the ones that never caused her to wake in fright.

"It's time, Sansa." It was so kindly and gently said that Sansa had to bite back the wish to bawl in want of her own mother.

_She should be here_.

However, that was not to be... that would _never _be; she had internally negotiated the terms of that despair long before this day.

Sansa was now on her own journey to become a mother; and it would be with the same determination she had used to survive and adapt to this point in her life that would see her succeed in the next transition.

Helping her to her feet, Sansa was once more abashed as another splash of wet fell to her feet; it felt like buckets being poured out of her and she couldn't find the words to apologize.

Then Genna, in her own way, came to her rescue again, "Don't look so dreadful Sansa, that is the _least_ offensive thing that will come out of there before you're done."

Blinking in shock, Sansa watched a wide smile stretch across the older woman's face and heard the heartiest of laughs before she felt hands guide and assist her to where she needed to be.

The birthing chamber had been designated and prepared in one of the suites of rooms that occupied the same level as their home in the Tower of the Hand. It had been a distraction for both herself and the Queen as well for Lady Genna; and although the latter would never truly admit to the enjoyment of such frivolous things, the way she commanded the furnishing arrangements told the other two women differently.

Both Queen Margaery and Lady Genna stayed with her as she prepared and waited and anticipated… _and waited even longer_ for the arrival of her child. For as much as she was anxious and excited, Sansa could not help but feel hesitant and on display with the amount of midwives and maids that scurried around her.

The sun descended below the horizon as her pains intensified, she slept in fits and bouts, but it was not until it had risen again and moved to almost the same position it had been in when she began that she knew her body was preparing itself to deliver.

It was quicker than she had imagined, she had only been told to push twice… and whatever pain there was went unregistered - at least in immediate hindsight.

Margaery was stroking her hair and Sansa focused on that particular bit of calm as Genna stood and walked to where a squalling infant, _her baby_, was being cleaned and examined by the maester.

Sansa could feel the sweat streaming like ribbons down her forehead and over her face, she felt queasy, but it was nothing compared to the excitement she felt.

All she wanted was to hold her child.

There was a voice that carried over the din in the room, however, that snatched her happiness out from under her. It wasn't _who_ the voice belonged to that was the threat; it was the words it put forth.

"More trout than lion this one is, a small fish at that. Our lord Hand will not like this at all."

There was a vague recognition that it was one of the maids that had been summoned to assist, but Sansa was not given time to think on it before she heard the distinctive sound of a swung palm meeting flesh. _That _noise was followed by two more matching it, then the voice of Lady Genna speaking words Sansa had never heard from the mouth of a woman.

The furor grew softer and she could only assume the maid was no longer in the room.

Looking at the Queen, Sansa smiled weak and gentle in reciprocation of the grin being offered by her friend and as she opened her mouth to talk, her world angled sharply in terrible pain.

It was worse than before, she was sure, and she could feel hot liquid pooling around her backside.

_His first wife died birthing... I can only hope the same for you and yours..._

The pain inside her was causing her vision to dim, at the same time Sansa knew her mother had been granted her wish.

She heard Margaery calling her name, then heard Genna do the same; the maester was talking to her as well, but all she wanted to do was ignore the warbling voices and curl up to sleep in the murk that was inviting her.

More liquid pooled and she supposed it was her very life slipping away; there was so much pain...

She was very tired and it was very easy to just close her eyes and leave; so she did. Sansa gave up… gave in to the restful dark and let it consume her; let it bathe her body in tingling relaxation...

The blackness did not last long before she was brought firmly into reality by an atrocious agony ripping through her. Death was horrible, she concluded; it was toying with her.

_I want to hold my baby!_ her mind cried.

Sansa looked to the side, to Genna, she wanted a message sent to Tywin...

Lady Genna was smiling at her; it was a happy grin that split her face almost in two, the kind of smile used in celebration.

Sansa was taken aback, then altogether angry; who _smiles_ at someone obviously dying?

_A Lannister_.

The woman leaned in, her ample bosom helping to prop up Sansa's exhausted body, and spoke clearly two words that all at once lifted the heaviness from Sansa's mind and stabbed her with a pang of absolute fear.

"Push, girl."

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The only person Lord Tywin trusted to inform him regarding the health and sex of his child was his wife.

It was a request to some, a threat to others; however, it was the same policy employed by Tywin the first time he became a father. It had nothing to do with pride; it was a matter of privacy. He did not want to hear about his family from a faceless, nameless servant nor did he care to hear a maester prattle on about diagnosis and procedure.

He trusted his brother to be company and his sister to summon him when it was time to go to his wife; like the first time.

_And the second_.

Kevan knew the unease his brother was suffering; it had been almost an entire day and Tywin had yet to move from the room in which he chose to wait. Whatever work he sat down to address was soon shuffled aside or stared at but not read.

Some men drank in their anticipation, King Robert went to hunt; not Tywin. His brother would never be left without control. He drank only watered wine and ate when food was brought, other than that he was silent. Even their best attempts at conversation faded into distraction and a horribly concealed brooding on the elder Lannister's part, but Kevan knew - as he had since they were children - that it was his _presence _Tywin needed of him, not words.

When Genna at last entered the room, both brothers immediately looked to her searching her features for hints and clues, but she was just as much a lion as either of them - giving them nothing.

She walked to her oldest brother and spoke in the manner he demanded of everyone around him, forthright respectfulness - the exact manner in which Lady Genna was not known to indulge.

"Lady Sansa is expecting you, my lord."

Kevan clenched his jaw wanting to demand more information from Genna, but watching his brother tense in discomfort at her dutiful statement chased that desire away.

Tywin could be rigid and cold, but it did not alter the fact he was just a man; and the feelings he chose to share with a select few were well anchored within the plane of mortals.

His sister knew this too, and when Tywin stiffly turned to leave, Kevan watched as Genna caught their brother by the hand - wearing the grin that was expected initially; she tugged on her big brother, beaming at him like she did when she was barely able to walk, toddling after her siblings in an effort to play.

The effect was instantaneous, the old lion relaxed - first his shoulders then the rest of him, and his face softened to a seriousness that was untroubled.

Genna was still smiling, giving her brother whatever solace he needed from it, from her, when he nodded gently; she took the silent cue and let go, still smiling as Tywin left.

The remaining Lannisters exchanged a glance before settling in.

Walking to the far end of the room, Genna looked absently out the window and spoke in a tone to match, "I had a chair placed by the bed for him, he's going to need it."

Kevan scoffed lightly as he poured a cup of wine, "A son then?"

Turning to him in a slow deliberate way, his sister offered him a wry curve of her lips.

"_Two_ of them," she said with an accompanied rise of her eyebrow.

He laughed genuinely pleased at the news, but he was not about to miss the opportunity to trade barbs with his sister, especially if they were at Tywin's expense, "Gods, you've best left a maester in there as well."

Lady Genna shared the mirth of her brother, laughing in earnest, then flicked her glance to his wine; again arching an eyebrow and smiling wide, asking for her own.

Kevan obliged, again talking as he poured, "And Sansa? How fares the mother?"

Genna kept her smile, "Wonderful."

Kevan nodded, acknowledging the continued good news, but frowned as he passed his sister her cup.

She was wearing a look he had only seen on her twice, like she was fighting the emotion her biting humour and cool cynicism always overshadowed.

"Kev, she's not Joanna... she's young but... she's something different yet similar at the same time."

Her eyes misted then, her brother knew they would never develop tears.

"Those boys are well cared for with her," she nodded in the direction of the door as she spoke.

It was a statement said in all seriousness, something that Kevan knew to mean his sister's words should be considered absolute truth - and one would be a fool to do otherwise. It was as he wrapped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her into his side - a rare show of affection for either - he also knew that his sister was speaking of the _three_ boys beyond that door.

However, _that _specific truth was one Kevan Lannister had known for a span of years now.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Lord Tywin slowly entered the brightly lit room and felt his steps become hesitant when he saw his wife.

Sansa was holding a small bundle in one arm and had her hand draped in the babe's basket that was set to her side. On the other side of the basket, past the bed, was a chair - it became his destination.

The new focus did not ebb his hesitation.

His wife had not looked to greet him, she did not look anywhere except at the babe; and as he sat down with his natural careful grace, his eyes trained on nothing but the girl hunched over the child, Tywin Lannister was gripped with anxiousness in the pit of his stomach.

_The imp_.

He could not see the child clearly, he could not discern if...

"What's wrong with..." he didn't even know if it was a boy or a girl, "..._it_?"

She did not answer her husband right away, though she heard him clearly, entrenched in her own thoughts as she was.

"Sons, my lord," she started, her throat caught on the newness of the word but still sounded distant; she turned her head toward him.

At the same time his wife looked to him, Tywin looked away; reaching his hand to hers, where it was resting in the basket; and it was as though he was just then registering her words.

_Her word_.

There was warmth and movement under his wife's hand. His eyes drifted over the rumpled blankets until they met the pink face of another babe. Sleeping sound, wrapped head to toe in plush linen, Tywin could just barely make out the tiniest of golden curls peeking out from under the swaddling clothes.

_Sons_.

"Two of them..." it was flimsy, like he was dreaming.

He looked again to his wife, _his_...

She saw a brightness in his eyes at the impact of his own words, a brightness that faded when her face remained built of fear and agitation.

"Our firstborn..." she looked to the boy in her arm.

Tywin swallowed hard and sat up straighter, "_What_ is _wrong _with him?" his voice was wavering in anger; his hand was gripping hers tighter.

Sansa pulled her hand from her husband's, pivoted the babe in front of her so he was lying perpendicular and tugged away the soft fabric from the top of her son's head, exposing wavy wisps of the most delicate auburn.

_More trout than lion this one is... our lord Hand will not like this at all._

It was the only thing she could think of; all she could see in her mind's eye was Tywin taking her baby away without so much as a thought or care; she did not want her child to suffer because _she _failed to give her husband a golden heir, a proper lion.

Her face tensed at the thought, she was far too weak to fight him - but she _would_.

"...has red hair, my lord."

It was said with as much resolve as she could muster, which angled to confusion when she heard the man beside her emit something that started as a scoff, then extended to a growl.

Flicking her eyes to Tywin, she immediately saw his chest drawing and releasing erratic gulps of air and a look on his face that should have made her feel a fool, but did not.

"Your unnecessary dramatics will be the death of me, girl," he wheezed out, his brows pinched in annoyance, "I would hazard to question if you realize this, but I think it's all part of your ploy."

He thought to break the mood of tension, but his wife still held a look of consternation and suspicion. He didn't need skill to know what she was thinking; what she was thinking of _him_; she was calling him a liar with her eyes and calling him a villain with her silence.

The all too familiar wash of ire crept into him as he noticed the walls around him began to disappear; with it was ignited an agony so fearsome it felt as though the thing was clawing and punching its way out of his chest.

Even though he was concentrating on his words, they came out shaky and furious.

"Do you really hold me in such low regard, Sansa?" he stood then, equally shaky, so enraged at her persistently hollow perception of him, "Did you think I would walk in and... and what? _Drown_ him?! _My son_?! Because his _fucking hair_ is the same colour as his _mother's_?!"

His bellows were felt more than heard; Tywin was not so callous as to disturb the babes, regardless of _what_ his wife thought of him.

_Gods_, he was hurt and it was to the core of him; to the root of what he felt for her. She could have done anything, stabbed him, bled him, and it would not have wounded him as much as her opinion that he would harm his heir for something so trivial.

Sansa was cringing, her teeth bared, once more holding her eldest in the bend of her arm and holding the tiny foot of her youngest as he lay in the basket beside her.

She was becoming overwhelmed.

Her eyes were red and brimming with tears, but she held them back; her mouth, however, watered in her fury and sadness, causing her to speak in a gritty tone.

"I am _not _blind, my lord. I saw the way you treated Tyrion," her tears fell then; no sobs, just angry tears marking her inability to do anything else, "Is my fear so farfetched?"

_Of course it is_, her mind sneered, _he_ _loved_ that_ wife_.

At her words, it was Tywin who was baring his teeth. He was wroth, but his mind was tilting his ire from his wife to him, then back again - it was all getting too volatile.

She watched her husband, seething each breath that sustained him, turn on his heel to leave; Sansa's enmity was something dangerous.

He heard a low voice, furious and menacing, completely new and so unlike his wife.

"Don't you fucking _dare_ leave_._"

Tywin stopped dead; he had to turn back and look at Sansa in order to ensure she was still the same person.

If he did not know her youthful age outright, he would have thought the lady in front of him a sage entity, someone or something he would be wise himself to heed.

Their roles reversed; Lord Tywin Lannister felt a boy, foolish and so full of pretension it was vulgar, standing in anticipation of fury from a politic woman.

She wore a face that was not her own, not one of the masks he had become familiar with, not even a look she had adopted from him. This was a demeanor all her own, built from a storm of rage so absolute it made the old lion flinch openly.

It was the look of a mother protecting her children; of a lioness protecting her cubs; of a wolf-bitch protecting her pups.

It was undeniably breathtaking.

It was undeniably frightening.

Tywin was fidgeting, his eyes flicking and darting; he was at war inside himself and normally this would be when Sansa would dutifully acknowledge him, nod her head and allow his ego and emotion an exit.

He was waiting for her reprieve and she had no intention of giving it.

"Would you hate _them_," she flicked her eyes to the tiny bodies around her, "so much if _I_ had died?"

The words slid past her lips as less than a whisper; their eyes locked, and in that sliver of existence Sansa, for the first time, saw her husband as an equal.

His face was scarlet and sweating, his lips were quivering, and Sansa could see that it was with every thread holding him together that he fought to speak his answer. She looked away from him out of some ridiculous courtesy ingrained into the fabric of her, but when he spoke she was glad of that same decorum.

"_Yes_."

He had to physically shove the word out of his lungs, an action that made it hiss long at the end.

His whole body was trembling.

He could only think of one other time he felt that way, so out of himself that the threat of madness made blind lunges at his mind like a rabid animal - the last time he stood on a precipice above that particular abyss he was staring at a dead wife, not a living one.

Sansa wept freely now, silently.

No longer angry, no longer consumed by loathing, she let the horrible truth take her - so horrible because she did not know if she was appalled or elated at her husband's admission, his confirmation of emotion, of something deeper.

Her lord. Her lion.

She did the only thing she could and reached to hold the hand that was hanging limp at his side. Sansa held it in a grip of iron; a grip she hoped would tell him the words she had never allowed her mouth to make, as well as the promises her heart had already pledged to the two boys who were now the entirety of her world.

He held her back. Her hand, the only part she gave him; it did not matter; he would take it and be grateful.

Sansa had not looked at him, had not raised her eyes from the russet-haired infant blinking at her from the bend of her arm; of which, her long fingers wrapped themselves up and around the legs of the babe, _his _babe, _his heir_, as the delicate ribbons of a mothers love were always apt to find a way.

Whatever torrents of bitterness that were between them, mother and father, moments prior, were dissipating as nature dictated. Washing away the worthless turmoil and leaving only truths - some ugly, some beautiful, but every single one valid and necessary.

Lord Tywin sat down again, silent and observing, holding the hand of his wife, _the mother of his children_.

It was heady; far more than he had anticipated, far more than he allowed himself to remember it being - but that was for the best. He would much prefer the experience feel new than yet another resurgence of past pain.

With that he lifted her proffered hand and brought it to his lips. He did not kiss it or make a show of affection, it was with an air of absence he pressed his mouth onto her impossibly soft skin as he watched, hypnotized as his son's own wet lips worked and yawned.

The trance was broken when Tywin felt the slender fingers he was admiring wriggle as a sign to set them free.

He did not want to let them go, and as he watched them leave his grasp there was protest on his tongue until he discerned their intention.

Sansa maneuvered their first born so she could hold him out to his bewildered looking father.

"Hold your son, Tywin."

His wife sounded more like his mother, but it mattered little and less to the old lion.

Biting back his apprehension, he took the small thing; his hands and arms remembering everything they were taught decades earlier - cradling the calm and curious babe.

_So bloody small_.

He forgot just how minute life could be; his son did not extend the length of his forearm. He was alert though; this tiny version of them, eyes wide and dark - the colour not yet set - with the finest of silk for hair, the same rich auburn as Sansa.

Tywin ran the tips of his fingers over the top of the boys head just to confirm the reality; the added reality was looking to his wife and seeing a second son, equally tiny, sleeping sound where she had lifted him to her breast.

She caught his stare in her peripheral, nothing exceptional, nothing that had not happened a thousand times before; so when she looked to him, Sansa was not expecting to spill silent tears once more. She was not expecting to shed tears that came with a broad smile, a smile that was reciprocating Lord Tywin's own.

Not a grin, not a smirk, but a wide smile that made her husband young. It removed the severity in his face, smoothed out the rigid lines, and angled his brows to a position that signified happiness instead of suspicion.

The Great Lion watched a delicate hand reach long and touch the evidence of his ability to be contented. This time he _did_ kiss the fingers that brushed his lips and smiled true at her... for her… because of her as she retracted her hand and smiled back.

The gods be damned, he _was_ happy, intoxicated even, and nothing could change that fact in that moment.

His eyes again drifted between the pair of lions his lady so bravely set into the world.

His _sons_.

"Tysan." it was said to the babe in his arm, but it was meant for Sansa as well.

She scrutinized him then.

Sansa had almost dreaded the name her husband would choose for their child, _children_. She felt it corroboration that she had no control in her life; that outside whatever freedom Tywin granted her in their union, she would never truly be free.

It had been a conflict of duty, but like most instances of doubt of this nature, Sansa was proven a fool. All she ever had to do was trust him. Trust him to do best for not only himself and the Lannister name, but for her as well. It may not have been romantic, but consideration, regardless of the emotion or motive or gain behind it, meant he thought about _her _and weighed those minutiae as well.

No, not romantic, but perhaps their version of it.

"It's a good name," she smiled at the boy. "_Tysan_," she cooed.

Tywin scoffed lightly, in a pleasant tone; of course it was a _good_ name.

"And him?" Sansa looked to the babe who felt no need to trouble himself with his new world like his older brother, "What of this lion?"

Her husband spoke to the slumbering bundle less than an arm's reach away without any hint of pause, "Rykar."

She rolled the name on her tongue and was taken by the familiarity, the comfort it brought her.

It tasted northern.

Their second son would be positioned in the North; of course his name would be a reflection of that. She felt as though she should want to be angry, but _that_ specific tinder was damp and she had nothing left to strike a spark.

She smiled down at the golden-haired babe and spoke in a quiet voice, "_Rykar_."

They sat there in the comfortable silence that was their way, listening to the tiny squeaks and fussing of their children.

How odd.

How new.

Sansa thought back to a conversation she had so long ago, one in which she was to be married to a monster, one in which she was told that regardless of the immoral machinations of their sire, her children would be the focus of her love.

It was such an elusive concept to be told, and considering the source, it was never an opinion she held with any regard.

But here it was; the truth of it; the living, breathing embodiment of that particular knowledge.

Equal in truth was that she did not marry the monster from that conversation. And as Sansa casually tilted her head and looked at her husband - her uncharacteristically _smiling _and _happy _husband - she knew the moniker was a relative term.

More so, she knew _that_ detail all along.

"Red and gold."

Tywin did not take the focus from his tiny prize when he softly muttered the words, but when Sansa did not question or acknowledge them, he flicked his eyes in her direction.

She was looking at him wearing the smile that was his; she looked tired, and somehow it was pleasant on her.

He could feel foolish of his sentimentality but it was already out there between them, so he chose not to.

"You have given me Lannister colours, my lady," even his words smiled.

Sansa huffed a small laugh and blinked slow, idly gauging the softness of their sons curls in her fingertips, she _was _tired, "I don't know if your bannermen will agree with you."

Tywin breathed his own scoff, shrugging as he spoke, "They've not much say in the matter." He looked back down at Tysan, considered the serious babe, "Lions, but they certainly have wolf in them."

Looking down at the sleeping bundle in her arm, _Rykar_, Sansa really couldn't distinguish much more than almost invisible golden Lannister hair and a red, wrinkled face.

_More like his father then_, snickering to herself, her humour was immediately followed by a not overly serious inner admonishment.

"Trout perhaps, my lord, I am of my mother." The words felt like a random thought even though it was in line with their conversation; her exhaustion was catching up to her.

"You carry Tully markings, true, but not everything about you is from the Riverlands," he spoke softly.

Sansa perked up as he spoke to their child in direction and to her in what he was saying - what he noticed in her; it was shallow and discourteous to want praise but it did not mean she craved it any less.

"When you are well into thought," he flicked his eyes to her, they were gentle, "or in the midst of conquering men and women with your charm," she blushed at him in such a way that Tywin resolved to make the effort to compliment his lady more often, "it is your father in the set of your jaw, the stern focus of your eyes, and in the conviction of your words and opinions."

Tywin looked back down to Tysan and muttered, "Very much Eddard Stark."

Her head dipped and she looked at Rykar again, this time fighting the sadness of thinking of her father and looking for the very man in the babe she held. And there it was, all it took was a tiny shift of the lips and gentle tilt of the brow and she saw her father - and Robb, and Bran, and Rickon, and so much of Arya.

Sansa was far too tired to weep, so she smiled instead, her flagging thoughts finding voice as she marveled.

"You are equal parts of your father and mother..." it was whispered dreamily to her sleeping son.

Tywin spoke to her claim, distracted in his own right, "All children are."

_No they aren't_, her mind buzzed.

"Joffrey had nothing of King Robert in him," her mouth spoke clearly, albeit absently, what was meant to stay in her thoughts, "nor does Myrcella and Tommen..."

Sansa felt like she had dozed, her heavy eyes aching for the relief of being closed; but when her husband growled in a dangerous tone of warning, her mind prickled in sudden wakefulness.

"Tread carefully, _wife_."

She snapped her head in his direction, he was only looking at her with upturned eyes - they were angry, but there was something else in them too. Something telling of what she said and what it meant to him.

_Truth_?

Here was her choice, her crossroads; pursue what could be the truth that perpetuated a war and devastated a kingdom, _devastated her_, or not.

Her eyes drifted lower to the boy Tywin held in his arm, then back up to man who was silently questioning in which direction their relationship would now travel.

She slowly reached over and brushed her fingers through Tysan's hair, smiling as he wriggled to catch sight of what disturbed him, then reached higher and stroked the cheek, and hair there, of her children's father.

"I tread no further than those in this room, _husband_."

Her honest words were as soft as the touch she laid upon him and Tywin could not defend against them both. Closing his eyes he leaned into her fingers and let out the air his body was holding captive.

_Family_.

_Duty_.

.

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** A huge thank you to my beta, content developer, researcher, sounding-board, and internet life-partner: dealbreaker19 **


	9. Wonder pt III

Sansa took to her baths like she was seeking refuge.

The bathing chamber in the Tower of the Hand was at a level of opulence one would expect in association with Lord Lannister. The room was expansive and held stations for various forms and stages of bathing, but the jewel amongst them was the tub itself.

Built of thick copper, the vessel was large enough to accommodate Sansa at least six times over. Each wall inclined slightly, ensuring comfort at any angle, and retained enough heat in the depths of the metal that her maids said it took over an hour to cool completely.

Edging the outer sides of the tub were embossed ornate gold lions and engraved flourishes directly in the copper. They were such a fine detail, Sansa found something new every time she looked. But the most beautiful aspect was that parts of those same decals wandered over the rounded rim to the inside; where she would place a fingertip over the gold that seemed to drip wet just above the water level and marvel how she couldn't feel where one metal met the other, or how the etchings in the copper held no sharpness at their delicate edges.

It was quiet.

It was her haven.

She would never deny her children time or love or attention, but she found in the subsequent moons since their birth that she needed to seek time for herself as well.

It was never a thought before, time of her own; Tywin had not tethered her and only required of her the duty that was expected from the wife of the Hand of the King, the wife of the Warden of the West, and the Lady of the Rock. As lofty as the titles sounded, they were simply roles she moulded into; ones she had been prepared for all her life... at least, the spirit of them.

As a young girl, she had never once imagined those same stints with such a man.

Regardless, motherhood was like she had been given a sword, shoved into battle, and told to fight for her life.

A smile curved her lips as she sunk further into the hot fragrant water.

_Unnecessary dramatics_.

No, it wasn't a fight for her life, but it was a change comparable to that same sort of fear.

Her babes.

Her sons.

As with their hair, the eye colour of her boys had no compromise, no mix or dilution. Her bright, bold Tully blue shone under the golden curls of their youngest and Lannister green, so light and flecked with gold, settled on the boy with waves of auburn.

"It's a blessing you had two," Lady Genna had snorted the morning Tysan's colour faded to green instead of the aqua it had been, "only one, and he would have come out patchwork_._"

Sansa huffed a laugh to herself as she watched her maids fill the heating trough in the hearth with more water.

Soaking in her bath, she heard Tywin dismiss the maids attending her and adjust the small stool beside the tub to accommodate the reach of his legs.

She wasn't startled or concerned; this was a routine that happened often.

From their wedding night, Sansa knew that the act of washing her was something her husband enjoyed. In the beginning she acquiesced out of duty, perhaps out of fear too, but as time lapped over their marriage, smoothing down the jagged edges, it was a custom Sansa grew to enjoy herself.

It was never initiated out of arousal or sexual need; however, Sansa grinned to herself at the thought, it sometimes lead to it.

His hands, so strong and lethal, became delicate and restrained in these times. She had a sudden realization somewhere along the course of their time together as her husband was tilting her head and washing her throat and shoulders, she concluded that this was his form of prayer.

Lord Tywin had no use for invocation, only entering into a sept when accompanying her; and though his belief in the Seven was real enough, so was his disdain for them. He had never admonished her attendance, he knew that she was not there for the gods, but for the aspect of reflection and remembrance.

Though he would not participate in that aspect either. At least not with her.

He only ever arrived to the bathing chamber already divested of his doublet; and the rolling of his sleeves as well as the decisive placement of washcloths and soap began their silent ritual. He would then move her hair aside - exposing her neck and jaw line.

Tywin always started at the hairline of her brow, turning her face, sometimes her body, in order to tailor the reach and symmetry of his cleanliness.

It was when she would watch him wash over the jut of bone at the base of her throat, over her breasts and lower, gently scrubbing each finger and each toe with a focus as devout and somber as any septon that she knew he was in his place of worship.

Sansa closed her eyes at the feel of his attentions and let flow a tumble of thoughts and memories which, of course, immediately returned to her children.

Her sons used furniture and people alike to take wobbly steps in their initial tastes of freedom. They had no interest in crawling as she had been told they would, seemingly preferring upright investigation instead.

Rykar, the golden-haired Lannister with Tully eyes, was fearless in his curiosity and, she was sure, removing years of life from his mother every time he stood, walked, and attempted to climb.

She smiled in telling Tywin that it was a very Northern trait, stopping short and not wanting to remember the other little boy she had known with a penchant for climbing.

Rykar would focus on the tall leather boots of his father if they were anywhere within his line of sight and attention; only to scramble as fast as chubby limbs and a not-yet year of existence would allow to grasp at the polished surface with proportionately chubby digits, peering high, smiling toothlessly at his tall, stern-looking plaything.

"Insolence must be a Northern trait as well," Tywin had sneered, at the same time picking up his giggling, drooling progeny.

Sansa knew not to watch her husband directly, but to observe casually in her periphery, lest Tywin think he was being gawked at or scrutinized in his interactions_ - in his affection_ - which would lead him to curtly distance himself then leave their company altogether.

Like every breath and movement of her marriage, finding a balance to include Tywin in the lives of his sons was an accomplishment based on trial and error.

An accomplishment, regardless.

She knew very well he had a desire to be there with them, his family, when his schedule allowed, but Sansa learned through watching him that her husband did not rightly know _how_.

It was _not_ a surprising revelation.

And what began as subtle timing, having their children sleeping near their desk in the later evening while he wrote and she read, became a purposeful confluence before they supped.

There was a war inside Tywin Lannister the first time his sons, one rambunctious one serene, were ushered into their sitting room at a time he reserved, _no not reserved - just had always been_, for addressing queries and subterfuge of the realm without the constant eyes of counsel... or the swindlers themselves.

But there they were, his wife and his children, and he knew the latter would have easily been driven away if it were not for the former.

Because she smiled.

His wife smiled, and it ticked and pulled at him in a place deep in his bones, in the marrow of him. The place he conceded to give her, _watched her claim_, only to have two more people join her there.

It hurt for a while, to make room, but like everything pertaining to his wife - both time and her patience were a blessed salve.

They fit together, all of them, the four of them, because Sansa ensured that they did.

When Tywin derided her, informing he had hardly the time to care for babes and run a kingdom, she proved him wrong by including their children in the same room they endeavoured in the evenings. When he scolded his wife, telling her that children had no place at their desk while they worked, he found himself on more than one occasion cradling a sleeping boy in one hand and a quill in the other - proven wrong once more.

He couldn't fault her, how could he? She admonished him without a single word, struck down every argument he presented by way of process, and made it - their lives, work around _him_.

And as loathe as he was to do so, he would be a fucking fool not to acknowledge the affinity to Joanna.

It was on one of these nights that Tywin held the eldest of the two, the placid fire-haired boy who stared at him with his own eyes, reading missive after missive until he abruptly stopped, flung the parchment away with his fingers and stared livid at the babe.

Sansa did not move past inclining her head, not wanting to startle the perpetually fussy, newly sleeping son she held.

"What is it?" her voice was calm but framed in concern.

Sansa fixed Tywin with a stare he did not return and started to rise - sleeping babe and all.

He himself rose and lifted his hand, gesturing her to remain seated, allowing his agitated voice to turn silken as it floated over the child in his own arm.

"I've been pissed on."

He flicked his eyes to her and twitched the corner of his mouth, daring her to laugh, before walking toward the nursery waving off the maid who started to follow. Ordering the girl to fetch clean clothes for himself instead.

_An accomplishment, regardless_.

All victories are small victories in the grander view of life, but none are ever meaningless.

Sansa looked to the man who was deep in a world of his making, washing and preening his wife, his tunic losing its crispness as the steam from the water seeped into the fabric.

His eyes were soft and when he looked at her directly, he offered a smile. The truly genuine smile she had seemed to have earned since the birth of their children.

It was a sad truth, if one were to dwell on it too long.

Years in his presence and it was when he smiled kindly, thoughtfully, that Tywin almost became a stranger to her.

She would not discourage the practice, not for all the gold in Casterly Rock. Even if it was new and potentially suspicious to _her, _it was a feature of their father that her children have known from their onset.

A smile from the Great Lion.

It was a fragile thing she resolved to care for and cultivate for the benefit of her sons.

Sansa gave her husband a smile of her own. The one that had always been his - kind and natural.

The one that spoke tomes in her eyes and honesty on her lips.

For him.

_Him_.

The first time they bedded after she had delivered, Sansa watched her husband bend over her body and lay his mouth on every place she hated, every part of her that had been stretched, that had changed.

It was more than a shock to realize that once you became a mother nothing of the girl you were before remained. She was marked along her torso and curvier in her hips, and though her breasts were drying of milk they were not of the same firmness.

She had wept initially, grieving for the girl she worked so hard to become, the girl she would no longer be. Until Genna found her in a crumpled heap and pulled her into her arms, cooing and soothing her as if Sansa were not but a babe herself.

It was so very bittersweet; Sansa felt fit to choke.

_A Lannister_ playing the role of her mother because her own mother no longer wanted her, hated her… and the _true _pity, the _true _sadness: Lady Genna _was _relief and warmth.

Lady Genna _was _motherly, she _was _a source of reassurance and knowledge in those first few moons; and she should not have been.

Sansa inhaled long and deep; taking in the hints of citrus and the floral notes infused in the water that surrounded her. Sweeping the tips of her forefingers against the tips of her thumbs she could feel the slight slick of tallow within her milky soak.

The soft cloth and steady hand of her lord husband was now scrubbing gentle circles down the bumps and nooks of her spine.

She relaxed into her thoughts once more.

Tywin had kissed her everywhere. Everywhere and then some. The soft flesh behind her knees, the sensitive skin of her inner arm at her elbow, the crease where her thighs met her backside.

He was heated, but he was not rushed; he coaxed her to turn over more than once in order for him to gently ravish her.

When he placed his mouth over the tip of her breast, there had been a jolt of shame; _that was where her children were nourished_. But as he laved and sucked and moaned and continued to explore her body with his hands, her scandal tilted ever so slowly into ardor.

If there was anything she had learned about being a Lannister, it was that regret was folly and stigma only manifested if you allowed it. It was a strength to think in such a way and _that_, she knew quite well, meant those qualities were not gifted _only _to Lannisters.

But as her husband settled between her legs and into the groove of her body, the one that always seemed to suit perfectly, Sansa began to tremble. She felt like it was their wedding night - but worse because they had shared a bed for years and _now_ she was afraid.

Not afraid of Tywin, but afraid of how she had changed. She was different on the outside and had no idea of exactly how different she was on the inside.

The desire had been there, the pool of heat inside her stirred, she wanted the man looking at her with patient eyes.

Yet she trembled.

Her husband had moved again, this time out from where he fit so well until he was laid long on his side and encouraging her to do the same.

Long strong arms embraced her, pulled her tight against the body in front of her, followed by soft lips seeking hers and his tongue pressing for admittance into her mouth.

Sansa had met Tywin's kiss, and fiercely so.

Her own hands toyed and explored the side of him expose to the cool air, finding the peaks and valleys of her husband's body that she desired so much - his flank, his back, his hip, his arse.

She missed being close, being held close without the protrusion of life between them. It was greedy to think that, the love she held for her sons was scorching and singular, but she allowed it of herself.

Allowed of herself possessiveness of the man she was quite consciously burnishing with her body.

Even on their side, as her toes dusted his shins, they fit together.

Even where she was still a little soft at her middle, even how her breasts pressed into his chest at different height and volume, they fit together.

Even through her changes Tywin looked at her with an all consuming heat, kissed and held her with that same passion...

And that was the pith of it, wasn't it?

She felt a fool.

No matter how she had changed or how she thought she was different, Lord Tywin desired her no less than he ever had; perhaps with an even greater hunger - and that was exactly what she wanted.

Needed.

Pulling away from him slightly, Sansa locked his eyes and whispered through her hurried breathing.

"Now please... Now."

Finding his place in the cradle of her thighs once again, Tywin used one arm to brace himself and his other hand to guide himself into her heat.

He pushed into her folds slowly, sinking by the fraction - gauging Sansa for anything other than pleasure - until he had buried himself as far as their angle would allow.

His heart raced at the hot clutch of her, his eyes looked intently at her as he made an effort to concentrate.

There was no hurt, no discomfort. Tywin filled her and it caused that pleasurable coil at the pit of her to tighten in anticipation.

When she looked up, it was at the alluringly familiar sight of his long throat, the cords of muscle pulled taut and straining further.

She could feel him fighting to govern the rapid breathing that threatened to end their intimacy far sooner than was customary. His belly pressed firm against hers, she interpreted the pattern of intake and exhale as it began to slow; it had been a handful of moons since they shared closeness, but it was a triumph nonetheless when she easily _knew_ when to sway and churn, when to stroke her fingers over his skin, when to plant her mouth along his neck.

Tywin started to move in a lazy rhythm, groaning through long huffs above her.

Sansa took her time, enjoyed the feeling of him before hitching her legs progressively higher from the backs of his thighs eventually to his waist - granting him her depths, until he was fully sheathing himself within her.

His pace was steady as he looked down at his wife, her eyes glinting in their foggy wonder, her mouth slightly open and smiling all the while.

_My beautiful lady_...

"I've missed you."

The raspy words fell out of him; they were never supposed to have caught breath.

It seemed she knew that of them.

Sansa always _knew_.

Yet another reprieve granted by his breathtakingly beautiful wife.

She pulled his head down to hers and claimed that sieve of a mouth, kissing him deeply.

They each took and they each gave, more than once that night.

In the early hours of the next morning, before the realm could taint his day, Tywin woke her with his tongue lapping the most wonderful of places.

He savoured the taste of her, the feel of her, the sound and the sight of her. And as Sansa woke fully, _she_ was the one to explore.

Blinking out of where her thoughts had taken her, Sansa blushed hot and knowing at the tingling low in her belly.

_Surely it could be blamed on the heat of the water_.

The now became prominent once more when Tywin set his first cloth aside.

Sansa took her cue, accepting the hand he held out to assist her in standing.

Turning away from her husband, she noticed the lingering touch of his fingers over hers as he used his other hand to retrieve another cloth and begin the tender methodical scour of her bottom and the backs of her legs.

He kissed her there, on her backside, before turning her to face him - and she miraculously found the will to repress the urge to chuckle.

When her juncture became his focus, it was washed with high reverence, such a deft touch, and yet another cloth - this one far softer than the others, it was a pleasure all its own.

In these moments Sansa would sometimes rest her fingers over his.

It was a wordless command, one that saw her husband peer upward and wait for the next one she would give.

Her own inclination varied from instance to instance, but it was how Tywin looked at her every single time that prompted Sansa to offer such a gesture in the first place.

From her position of looking down on him, from the very first time her desire crested her duty as she stood there, she saw an element of submission within Tywin Lannister.

It was nothing groveling or dependent on the fact that she was elevated and he was not.

It was the path of the pious to give in to what they deem divine, and in his place of worship the old lion reveled in the peace and awe of the flesh laid bare before him.

His eyes told of a want only to please, and if she so asked he would obey.

Control was never something fleeting in the man washing her, but it was a commodity he held terrifyingly tight. Even on the occasions he would pass it to her, there was always the possibility he would panic and yank it back without warning or regard for consequence.

But in the moments Sansa held this control, _his control_, she knew that the responsibility was great. For it was in those flitting specks of time that she solely influenced every single thing the Lord of Lannister did.

She ruled.

And it was gloriously frightening.

Her mouth only had to utter thoughts, logical or brash, and the deed would be done. Even if her commands were ill advised Tywin Lannister would not rescind his word to her, would not admit to that kind of weakness.

Like everything that made them, the trust he offered in passing control to his wife was but one more test in choice and respect. And even though she had every opportunity to be overly demanding, selfish in her small pockets of autocracy, Sansa had never ventured beyond assisting the Queen in securing means to aid the downtrodden within the city and immediate crown lands without.

She could have anything, and his wife continually chose outside herself; in a manner that persistently garnered her, _them_, his name and House, a reputation of goodwill, fairness... an overall love of sorts.

A_ love _for her.

Her requests were only ever meticulously planned and considered from multiple angles. Never would she present a short term solution, only an answer to a problem and long term benefits of that solution.

His clever girl.

Equally, her commands also involved the encouragement to invest more time with his children, all of them... and his grandchild.

It was easier to feed the poor, but the effort was made.

For her.

Without a command or request on her part, Tywin finished the most delicate part of his wash; then, holding her hand, assisted her in sitting once more.

They sat in the restful stillness, the liturgy complete, as Tywin cupped water over the shoulders of his wife; watching fixated as the bathwater rivulets coursed and descended back from whence they came.

Sansa hugged her knees close and watched the golden skin on the hand of her husband breach the surface of the hazy water and considered the contrast, then looked at her own pallidity and scoffed internally - she, in fact, blended with her bath.

She blinked a look at the man who was idly stirring the water, so much like their sons.

He was beautiful.

It was not a revelation, it was the acknowledgement of a fact.

As much as her bath was her refuge, her detachment and serenity, there were times she simply wanted Tywin _there_.

It was no more a request than it was a need.

For him to be close and for her to be safe.

The past, the ghosts and terrors, always skimmed along her surface like the fragrant oils swirling on top of the water she sat in - and were just as difficult to evade.

They clung to her sometimes, those nightmare apparitions, soaking into her skin, and the only way she knew to relieve the cinch of fear and darkness was to have him near.

Sansa's eyes were languid, trying to focus on the nothing colour of the water; and when she spoke, it was like her voice was an audible representation of that same distraction.

"I never wanted to play this game."

Tywin did not falter in this movement, he was well used to her vagueness in these times between them; though, instead of snapping viciously at his wife's inept queries, he opted to probe further.

"What game?"

"Of thrones."

One side of Sansa's face pinched slightly as though it pained her. It was not the skin or muscles that were the cause - it was the sudden ridiculousness of her words.

Her husband paused a moment, his fingertips dipping lax into the bath and took a staid tone.

"The life we lead is anything but a game, my lady, you know that better than most."

She tilted her head toward him. Of course she _knew_; Tywin Lannister, _her husband_, was a flesh and blood reminder that she was but a piece in the _game_.

He gave her a knowing glare, one without guilt or regret - nothing of the sort. There was only a commanding seriousness, the same look that bent men to their knees and broke the wills of any left standing. It was the same look Sansa had studied and dissected from her place at his side; it was the look that she found she could pull strength of her own from.

And when he smirked at her, she knew that he knew his strength allowed _her_ to choose exactly what piece she wanted be.

"Though _duplicity of thrones_ hardly has the same ring," he finished sardonically.

She smiled softly at him.

"You were born playing it, Sansa. Just as I was," his hand returned to tipping water on her flank and back, but he was distracted, petting her mostly, "and like anyone born to our position, it is never a matter of want, it is a matter of duty."

"No one ever truly wins."

Her thought was a summation, not a question; causing Tywin to still his hand and look at her squarely.

"No. They simply play their game. The rats scurry and fret and scheme and plot, and forget there sits an entire realm outside these walls living and dying at their whim. That it's the _kingdom_ that makes the king, and without it he is _just _a man. The rats always forget their duty," she could feel the tremor of rage where his hand rested on her back, "but they also forget how low to ground they are. That no matter the confusion they create, there is always someone sitting higher, seeing how it unfolds."

"Cats always position themselves in the tallest trees, on the highest shelves," her tone was startlingly serious, "even when birds fly over and taunt, they sit and wait patiently for them to touch ground."

Sansa kept his eye as _she_ spoke _his_ very thoughts, "Cats eat the rats."

Tywin felt his ire drain, replaced with something lighter. His thumb danced circles on the skin over her ribs, and the fingers of his other hand brushed clumped damp strands of hair from her face.

Sansa had returned her focus to the water she was sitting in as she presented her question.

"Why didn't you take the throne? You had plenty of opportunity to be king." There was nothing accusatory about it.

"You are the second person who has ever dared ask that question." What he would not tell her was that he had called the first person _wife_ as well.

Sansa looked at him sidelong, the corner of her mouth was turned up slightly but she wasn't truly smiling.

Tywin dipped his fingers in the water and raked them gently in the luke-warmth, "What position is above a king?"

Sansa pursed her lips a little and thought. She was speaking toward the water, but her eyes stayed on her husband.

"In Westeros, there is no..." she thought to place her words, "regency higher than king." Sansa knew where he was directing her, so she turned before he could steer, "You rule regardless, why not have the title as well?"

They were questions and thoughts based solely in curiosity, Tywin could sense that easily enough.

It was always in the tranquility of the strangest places that they had their most intriguing conversations.

"There is no power in a title, power comes from perception. Who is feared more: a king, or a man controlling the king?"

Looking at the swirling oils in the misty water, Sansa arranged the images of her thoughts in order of sense and scenario.

"But when the man who has controlled so many kings becomes king himself," she took a moment to ensure her words sounded right in her head before continuing, "no perception is needed to assign power where it truly lies."

Tywin felt a warmth in him that had nothing to do with the bathwater, he looked at his wife and smiled. _The canny creature_. It must have caught her eye because she turned her head to him fully and smiled back.

Her husband's mirth sunk slowly to seriousness.

"If there is nothing above a king, in which direction is the only option for a king to move?"

Sansa's own smile flattened at her realization.

"Down."

Tywin hummed his agreement then spoke with an edge of anger.

"I have no desire to fall; not when there are so many rats who would gladly watch and encourage it happening."

She did not know why, perhaps it was a want to alleviate the heaviness their conversation now bore, perhaps it was simply a want of fun, but she tugged them out of seriousness by way of whimsy.

She didn't look at him, but she grinned as she talked, "Then lets us run away."

There was a pause, and for a heartbeat Sansa braced herself for his ire.

"And do what? Go where?"

Instead he presented only genuine curiosity.

So, she played.

"It hardly matters."

He raised an eyebrow and scoffed, "But it does. How will I provide for our children?"

Narrowing his eyes, Tywin waited for Sansa to look at him before continuing.

"I don't know how to do anything else, and neither do you - and it is for _that _very reason dreams are dangerous."

Sansa held an indignant pause at his words - they were the truth, she knew very well the terrible effect dreams had on ones actuality, but it was hardly reason to ruin a moment of levity.

Her husband took a deep breath, relaxing his features, and addressed her quietly.

"You have learned to construe your dreams and aspire toward only those that are, or are potentially, attainable. You have also learned it the hard way."

Tywin then looked and spoke in a manner she knew to mean his words were bonded, unbreakable, "Our children will not be initiated in such a way, Sansa, _that_ I promise you."

The information was serious enough, but it was also nothing she did not already know. Her newly rekindled adventure clambered for attention, and Sansa found she could not deny it.

"You have wealth, we could go anywhere," she said coyly.

Tywin huffed, not in a berating manner for angling back to frivolous conversation, but something pleasant.

"That's not running away Sansa, that's _relocating_."

It was her turn; she smiled wider and laughed lightly - enough that her shoulders bounced in little movements.

When her husband spoke, it was still with a pleasant tone - perhaps something more.

"I will always be Tywin Lannister, no matter where I go, just as you will always be Sansa St-"

Whatever remnants of laughter she held, died immediately. Turning to him, it was her who was wearing the old lion's serious scowl.

Lord Tywin wore a look that was somewhere amidst confusion and amusement.

"_Lannister_." he said.

It was an easy gaff, even for her husband. Hers was a name that rolled off the tongue like a lyric, _Sansa Stark_; playful and sunny, _Sansa Stark_.

But that was not who she was.

That was not who she made herself into.

That was not who _he_ made her into.

Oh, Sansa Stark was still inside, innocent and unblemished. She was there underneath thought and reality, pulling strings sometimes, like now, puppeting Lady Lannister in puerile behaviour. But Little Bird was in there too, and stupid Sansa, and Little Dove...

She kept them all, those pieces of her, because without them the mother of Tysan and Rykar would not be the same.

"Please don't forget who I am," it sounded so small, childlike.

Sometimes she let the balance of who she was before and who she had become slip and teeter, it was a thrill, but Sansa couldn't fathom Lord Tywin doing the same. More than that, if _he_ lost grip then she most certainly would too.

Tywin took a heavy breath, "I will _never_ forget who you are."

What an absurd promise.

What an even more absurd relief.

But relief it was, and Sansa leaned toward him curling a wet arm around the back of his neck as she met his lips with hers.

She sensed his long fingers working through her tangled hair until they had a gentle hold of her head.

Her soft lips worked over his in quick pecks and lazy kisses; ones that would lean into his mouth slowly and pull away at the same speed. Every once in awhile he would feel her tongue flick, tempting him to try and capture it in his lips.

When he felt her mouth smile on his, he knew she was preparing a break; it was her tell, but if it had to be anything, a smile from his lady was the best advantage he could think of.

As Sansa settled back into the warm water, Tywin smirked at the maiden's blush she still managed to paint herself with at the slightest hint of intimacy.

The corner of his mouth twitched and he knew his eyes were soft in their gaze upon her; she was a feast of loveliness and he was a starving man.

"And what is it that you want?" his words tasted of charm even though they were founded in the man's never ending conjecture.

Sansa grinned, sweet and true, "Not a thing, my lord."

He watched her turn her attention back to her hands swishing in the water. She could be such a dreamy girl bent on sing-song wants and notions, but over the time of their marriage Tywin came to crave that part of her just as much as he craved the astute young lady. It was a rarity for anyone to carry both traits, and even more rare to display either with the amount of tact his wife did.

Lord Tywin set to stand, using the side of the large copper tub for leverage, picking up an empty bucket as he stood to full height.

Sansa observed her husband submerging the vessel to fill, walking to the drainage grate to empty, then returning to do it again.

The old lion repeated this action four times; the water level slowly revealed more of his wife as she watched him, her eyes content, her mouth angled to a shadow of a smile.

Once satisfied with the amount of water remaining, Tywin turned to the hearth and lowered the bucket into the long copper trough, filling it with the steaming contents.

"Mind your feet."

It was a placid command; always the same one he used before pouring hot water into the bath in order to raise the temperature.

Another ritual.

Always the same routine before he accompanied her.

The first time Tywin shared her bath, physically joined her in the water, he removed and added water then eyed her openly; first as he stripped bare, then from under half lids as he settled into the newly added heat - as _she _twisted into the smallest form she could create, as far from him as the tub would allow.

Sansa had only ever shared a few baths with her sister, and even then she hated it because Arya only wanted to splash and be unruly.

But her husband did nothing more those first times than soak and rest, wash then get out again.

He had never bothered or required anything of her.

She could not remember how many times they sat in the humid quiet before she reached out and touched his foot under the cover of murk. It seemed ludicrous to think back on it, as they had been sharing intimacies prior to that time.

But the act of bathing felt sacred to her.

_A place of worship_.

The old lion did not startle at his wife's initial touches, he kept his gaze steady and impassive. He allowed her caresses, light and tentative at first - almost as if anticipating retaliation. When none came, Sansa visibly relaxed from the ball she had curled herself into and furthered her investigation; in turn finding solace in the water once more.

Her husband sitting bare and unmoving in her place of comfort and solitude was an assessment. He was wordlessly, without action or overt pressure, challenging Sansa's mettle. It was one of the first times in her marriage that she acknowledged a strength inside her that had not been active, noticeably perhaps, before Lord Tywin tugged at her poise.

Sansa had become proficient at adapting to everything that happened around her, she was an authority on overcoming emotional suffering; but to be placed at the edge of the repose she relied on for both adapting and overcoming required another skill altogether.

It required her to journey deep into the den she kept within her mind and seek her comfort there.

It meant living in two places at once on occasion, but the more she did it, the easier it became.

Whereas once she existed wearing a shell in order to survive Joffrey, something that made her noticeably wooden, it also allowed everyone around her to know exactly what she was doing - it displayed her vulnerabilities. This new shell grew under her skin, it moved _with _her and left nothing for the vultures of King's Landing who sought advantageous carrion.

It was the same shell Lord Tywin Lannister wore, and had mastered, decades longer than she had been alive.

Some gifts, and what he had given her _was _a gift, were weightless and invisible, but carried a value higher than any bobble or trinket.

So when, in those early days of sharing her bath, her husband beckoned her to him using no more than a sway of two fingers on a hand resting on the edge of the tub, Sansa had no fear of getting closer.

When he maneuvered her to sit with her back against his chest, she willingly leaned into the warmth of him.

When he rested his arm around her middle, she rested her hands on his thighs.

Because he had taught her that real solace does not live in a chamber with a tub, or in a chamber at all, but is rooted deeply inside everyone individually and can never truly be taken away.

So peaceful and content was she that first time, Sansa woke up wrapped in soft linen being carried to their bed.

It were those very thoughts she recalled as Tywin settled in behind her, as she took her place between his thighs, reclined into his body, and teased little strokes and patterns where her fingers came to rest at his knees.

"Walder Frey is dead," Tywin stated casually, matter of fact.

He could feel Sansa tense against him only for a moment, then used the dissipation of that same tension as indication to continue.

"Not of old age, mind you."

At that he felt her body hitch, but whether it was a cringe or a laugh he did not know.

"Your mother's patience has paid off," Tywin acknowledged Sansa's palm now placed to rest gently on his knee under the water, "she knew the Twins would weaken at some point, and after moons of no activity he must have thought the same as the rest of us - that she'd moved on."

_Moved north_ was in the air but not as words.

"Where did they find him?"

Her question was far from simple.

In the time Lady Catelyn dedicated herself to the eradication of those who betrayed her; she had done so in the most visible manner possible.

Hanging clusters of Frey and liable Northmen or sometimes just presenting a head on a pike along the Greenfork.

The _justice _of Lady Catelyn and her Brotherhood was swift, brutal, and far reaching. Her influence stretched as far west as Golden Tooth and as far east as the Saltpans.

The Brotherhood without Banners grew in size - _a feral battalion_, as Lord Tywin described them - and were well trained and organized.

During the lengthy winter, many a man and woman found safety and purpose within the ever-moving community. And though their numbers were rumoured to be in the hundreds, Tywin estimated they were well over a thousand and simply well hidden, both in the forests of The Neck and at the outer cusp of the Vale mountains along the Kingsroad.

The group held the admiration of small folk in the Riverlands and beyond, held aloft as saviours to most, and threatened to children as a comeuppance for bad behaviour.

"_The Merciless Mother will find you, bleed you, and string you high_."

The Brotherhood had impeccable structure and hierarchy. Something Sansa could only assume was a result of her mother's highly meticulous nature.

They were also well funded.

Sansa's contributions became less frequently sought as villages and lesser lords alike started paying the Brotherhood furtively in exchange for goods, stores and protection.

Lannister gold was never truly forgotten though; she would find the tiny parchment, as she had since she watched her mother's silhouette fade into a forest, and endeavour to shuffle minute sums in multiple coffers around the books of finance the Warden of the West first taught, then trusted her to kept.

She was always careful, never rapacious, only taking from where it could be spared and never enough that it couldn't be seen as nominal loss.

"What was left of him was found in the hall where your brother was killed," a heartbeat was given, "trussed to a table and eaten alive by dogs, apparently."

_Wolves_, her mind corrected.

Only when Sansa felt her husband's arm encircled her middle, pulling her in tight, and his mouth rest at the top of her head, muttering nonsense words of reassurance, did she realize she was shivering in the torrid water.

She closed her eyes and let him hold her.

Tywin brought his unoccupied hand to drape over the soft skin of his wife's neck. His long fingers rested lightly around one side as his thumb drew gentle lines along her jaw on the other.

There were no other witnesses to their intimacy save golden flames from the hearth and a polished copper tub; each reflected in the soapy white of the water.

It was as the bath was losing the last of its pleasant heat that Sansa broke their silence.

"Have you set a date for us to leave, my lord?"

The snows were all but gone in the South, and receding progressively in the North. It was time for Lord and Lady Lannister to move as well.

"Another moon at the latest. You can start organizing ledgers and necessities to travel with us, but don't waste time with excess," the hand that had been warm on her neck brushed slowly down the front of her, over her collar and her breasts, until it met with its other at her midriff, "take only what is needed. Everything else will be replaced or waiting at Casterly Rock."

Sansa nodded in acknowledgement of his instructions and continued, "When will you come back here?"

"Eventually. When I sail north."

His voice was steely, and he raised an arm to rest on the edge of the tub - tapping his forefinger as he spoke.

Sansa knew he was panning through expectations.

"Kevan will remain here in my stead while we establish routine at the Rock. You will act as the authority in the West on my behalf, until I send for you to come north."

The words rolled out of him at a practiced cadence - they had discussed those very actions in detail, many times.

What she _wanted _was the only information that mattered to her.

"Will you tell me your strategy for the North?"

"No," he clipped dismissively.

"Why?"

"Because it does not concern you."

Her fingernails curled into the flesh above his knee and she spoke in a low venomous tone, "Yes, it _does_."

The arm left draped around her middle started to constrict, and while _that _pressure wasn't terrible it was his fingertips pressing progressively harder into her ribs that earned Tywin a grunt signifying his wife's physical discomfort.

When he felt Sansa's nails remove themselves from their dig into his skin, he relinquished his own grip.

It was something of a truce, but Lord Tywin was moody, not neutral, his bitter tone well established that fact.

"Trust me or don't. Either way it makes no matter." He leaned in, pressing his lips to her ear, and growled low, "Until you lead an army there, girl, any agenda regarding the North will be of my own making - not _yours_, not _anyone else's_."

Tywin sunk back to rest against the tub, his words causing Sansa to breathe in deep angry pulls; he could feel the hurt and rage coursing through her muscle, bone and sinew.

Lord Tywin did not care.

Because above and beyond the wounded pride of his wife he had a plan; and Sansa had a significant place within it.

.

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* * *

**Authors Note:**

Winter is over. On to Spring. On to the North.

I am going to start sounding like a broken record, but I have to thank each and every one of you who have taken the time to read and comment (publicly and privately). Your encouragement and enjoyment of this series gives such purpose to the process.

On the topic of process, I have to give an enormous amount of credit and love to my beta, dealbreaker19. Without her honesty and insight this series would read like... well... like the chapters that haven't been beta'd. More than that, she is a relief when I get frustrated and a fresh perspective when I crawl to her in the midst of self doubt.

She is a treasure.

The next part in the series is yet untitled, but rest assured it has been started.

Cheers!

Relic

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** A huge thank you to my beta, content developer, researcher, sounding-board, and internet life-partner: dealbreaker19 **


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